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AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS  VERSE 

FROM 

ROBERT  HERRIGK 
TO  OWEN  SEAMAN 

BY 

HELEN   AND   LEWIS 

MELVILLE 

COMPILERS   OF 

*'LOrD  ON'S     LURE" 

''FULL  FATHOM 

FIVE  " 


BRENTANO'S 
FIFTH  AVENUE  AND  27th  STREET 
NEW  YORK 


mm 


,/^^y 


S!®^, 


1/7  h 


Printed  bv  Ballantyjjk  <^  Co.  Limitso 

At  the  Ballantyne  Press 

London,  EKctAND 


NOTE  BY  THE    RJZ 
COMPILERS    ^ 

IN  presenting  this  volume,  the  compilers  wish  to  state 
that  they  do  not  put  it  forward  as  a  collection  of 
masterpieces  of  humorous  verse.  Many  masterpieces 
are  included,  but  the  object  of  the  compilers  has 
been  not  only  to  bring  together  the  best  humorous  verse 
in  the  language  between  Robert  Herrick  and  Owen 
Seaman,  but  also  to  give  representative  specimens  of  the 
work  of  these  writers  whose  efforts  were  acclaimed  as 
successful  by  their  contemporaries. 

The  absence  of  one  or  two  modern  writers  is  due  to 
their  works  not  being  available;  but  most  authors  and 
publishers,  with  generous  courtesy,  have  permitted  the 
insertion  of  such  copyright  poems  as  were  desired.  The 
compilers  desire  gratefully  to  acknowledge  their  in- 
debtedness to — 

Mb.  a.  St.  John  Adcock  and  the  Proprietors  of  ^'  Punch  " 
for  Mr.  Adcock's  verses  "  My  Neighbour  "  and  "  By 
Deputy,"  from  the  volume  entitled  "The  Shadow 
Show  " ; 


Mr.  Austin  Dobson  for  ''  The  Last  Despatch,"  from  the 
volume  entitled  "  Proverbs  in  Porcelain  "  ; 


Sir  William  S.  Gilbert  for  "  The  Yarn  of  the  Nancy 
Bell,"  '^Haunted,"  "To  the  Terrestrial  Globe,"  and 
«  A  Nightmare,"  from  "  The  Bab  Ballads  "  ; 

Mr.  Charles  L.  Graves,  Messrs.  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  and 
the  Proprietors  of  "  Punch  "  for  Mr.  Graves'  verses, 
"  Adieu  to  Argyll,"  from  the  volume  entitled  "  Hu- 
mours of  the  Way  "  ; 

5 


Qf^riQ^?; 


ISS    PE    R3    K^    K3    AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
tSa    ^    ^aS    ^S    ESS    HUMOROUS  VERSE 

Captain  John  Kendall  and  Messrs.  Constable  &  Co.  for 
Captain  Kendall's  verses,  "  Ode  to  the  Back  of  my 
Head"  and  '^Love's  Colours/'  from  the  volume 
entitled  "  Crackling  of  Thorns  "  ; 

Mr.  Andrew  Lang  and  Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. 
for  Mr.  Lang's  verses,  "  To  the  Gentle  Reader,"  from 
the  volume  entitled  "  Ban  and  Arriere  Ban  "  ; 

Mr,  R.  C.  Lehmann  and  Mr.  John  Lane  for  "  The  Run- 
away Rhyme,"  from  Mr.  Lehmann's  "  Anni  Fugaces"  ; 

Sir  Frederick  Pollock,  Bart.,  and  Messrs.  Macmillan  & 
Co.,  Ltd.,  for  Sir  Frederick  Pollock's  "  Lines  on  the 
Death  of  a  College  Cat,"  from  *^  Leading  Cases  done 
into  English,  and  Other  Diversions  '* ; 

Mr.  Owen  Seaman  for  '*  To  Emmeline  "  from  the  volume 
entitled  "  Salvage  "  ; 

Mr.  a.  a.  Sykes  and  the  Proprietors  of  "  Punch  "  for 
Mr.  Sykes'  verses,  "The  Splendid  Bankrupt "  ; 

Mrs.  St.  John  Hankin,  Messrs.  Constable  &  Co.,  and 
the  Proprietors  of  "  Punch,"  for  the  late  St.  John 
Rankin's  verses,  *'  De  Gustibus  " ; 

Messrs.  George  Bell  &  Sons  for  the  late  C.  S.  Calverley's 
"Ode  to  Tobacco,"  "Beer,"  "Ode— ^ On  a  Distant 
Prospect '  of  making  a  Fortune,"  and  "Striking,"  from 
"  Verses  and  Translations  "  ; 

Messrs.  Bowes  &  Bowes  for  the  late  J.  K.  Stephen's  verses, 
"A  Political  Allegory,"  from  the  volume  entitled 
"  Lapsus  Calami,  and  other  Verses  "  ; 

Messrs.  Chatto  &  Windus,  for  the  late  Henry  S.  Leigh's 
"  The  Moonlight  Sonata,"  from  the  volume  entitled 
*'  Carols  of  Cockayne." 

HELEN  MELVILLE 

and 

LEWIS  MELVILLE 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Note  5 

Introductory 

Abraham  Cowley — On  Wit  15 

Robert  Herrick  (1591-1674) 

The  Invitation  19 

A  Temarie  of  Littles,  upon  a  Pipkin  of  Jellie 
sent  to  a  Lady 


20 


Sir  John  Suckling  (i609-1642) 

The  Remonstrance  21 

The  Constant  Lover  21 

Samuel  Butler  (1612-1680) 

To  a  Bad  Poet  22 

Abraham  Cowley  (1 618-1 667) 

The  Chronicle  25 

An  Holy  Sister  28 

Matthew  Prior  (1664-1721) 

Merry  Andrew  29 

A  Reasonable  Affliction  SO 

Phillis's  Age  SO 

The  Remedy  Worse  than  the  Disease  31 

Nell  and  John  31 

An  Epitaph  32 

Jonathan  Swift  (1667-1745) 

Mary  the  Cook-maid's  letter  to  Dr.  Sheridan  34 

The  Furniture  of  a  Woman's  Mind  36 

Abroad  and  at  Home  38 

John  Gay  (1685-1732) 

An  Elegy  on  a  Lap-dog  38 

To  a  Lady,  on  her  Passion  for  Old  China  39 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


Alexander  Pope  (1688-1744) 

To  Mr.  John  Moore  42 

Henry  Fielding  (1707-1754) 

To  Sir  Robert  Walpole  .         43 

Thomas  Gray  (1716-1771) 

On  the  Death  of  a  Favourite  Cat  45 

Anon. 

The  Vicar  of  Bray  47 

Oliver  Goldsmith  (1728-1774) 

Elegy  on  Mrs.  Mary  Blaize  49 

The  Gift  50 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog  51 

The  Haunch  of  Venison  52 

William  Cowper  (1731-1800) 

Report  of  an  Adjudged  Case  55 

The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin  57 

John  Wolcot  ("  Peter  Pindar")  (1738-1819) 

The  Apple-dumpling  and  a  King  64 

The  Razor-seller  65 

The  Rival  Tradesmen  67 

King  Canute  and  his  Nobles  68 

The  Pilgrims  and  the  Peas  70 

Address  to  the  Reviewers  72 

Charles  Morris  (1745-1838) 

The  Contrast  73 

The  Catalogue  75 

Robert  Burns (1759-1796) 

John  Barleycorn  77 

The  Ronalds  of  the  Bennals  79 

The  Joyful  Widower  81  - 

To  John  Taylor  82 

George  Colman,  the  younger  (1762-1836) 

Lodgings  for  Single  Gentlemen  82 

The  Newcastle  Apothecary  84 

8 


f^    AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    K!Z 
cSa    HUMOROUS    VERSE    JaS 

PACE 

Lady  Nairne  (1766-1845) 

The  Laird  o'  Cockpen  87 

With  additional  stanzas  hy  Susan  Ferrer 

George  Canning  (l  770-1 827) 

The  Knife-grinder  88 

The  University  of  Gottingen  90 

Robert  Southey  (1774-1843) 

The  Cataract  of  Lodore  91 

Charles  Lamb  (1775-1 834) 

Pindaric  Ode  to  the  Treadmill  9^ 

James  Smith  (1775-1839),  and  Horace  Smith 
(1779-1849) 

The  Edinburgh  Reviewers  97 

To  the  Comic  Muse  98 

The  Lyrical  Lackey  99 

Winter  101 

Horace  Smith  (1779-1849) 

The  Jester  condemned  to  Death  102 

The  Collegian  and  the  Porter  103 

Thomas  Moore  (1779-1852) 

The  Donkey  and  his  Panniers  106 

Rhymes  on  the  Road  107 

Literary  Advertisement  109 

Epitaph  on  a  Tuft-hunter  110 

Alexander  Rodger  (1784-1846) 

Robin  Tamson's  Smiddy  111 

Thomas  Love  Peacock  (1785-1866) 

The  Legend  of  Manor  Hall  113 

Lord  Byron  (1788-1824) 

Written    after     Swimming    from    Sestos     to 

Abydos  117 

9 


i 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Theodore  Hook  (1788-1841) 

Cautionary  Verses  to  Youths  of  Both  Sexes 
Clubs 

Richard  Harris  Barham  ("  Thomas  Ingoldsby  ") 

(1788-1845) 
Mr.      Barney     Maguire's     Account     of    the 

Coronation 
The  Jackdaw  of  Rheims 
Misadventures  at  Margate 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  (1792-1822) 
Verses  on  a  Cat 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly  (1797-1839) 
The  Man  with  a  Tuft 

Thomas  Hood  (1799-1845) 
The  Boy  at  the  Nore 
A  Few  Lines  on  Completing  Forty-seven 
I'm  not  a  Single  Man 
The  Schoolmaster's  Motto 
John  Trot 
The  Demon  Ship 

WiNTHROP  Mackworth  Praed  (1802-1839) 

The  Belle  of  the  Ballroom  150 

My  Partner  154 

Marriage  157 

Francis  Sylvester  Mahony  ("  Father  Prout ") 
(1804-1886) 
Good  Dry  Lodgings  159 

Charles  Lever  (1806-1872) 

The  Pope  l60 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  (1809-1894) 

The  Deacon's  Masterpiece^  or,  The  Wonderful 

"  One-Hoss  Shay  "  l62 

The  Height  of  the  Ridiculous  l65 

10 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


PAGE 


180 


William  Makepeace  Thackeray  (1811-1863) 

Mr.  Molony's  Account  of  the  Crystal  Palace  l66 

The  King  of  Brentford's  Testament  171 

Little  Billee  178 
A   Bow  Street   Ballad  (The   Knight  and  the 

Lady) 

The  Battle  of  Limerick  182 

Jeames  of  Buckley  Square  1 86 

Shirley  Brooks  (1816-1874) 

Bayonet  and  Chisel  188 

A  Vision  of  Siren  Soup  190 

The  Policeman's  Tear  193 

John  Godfrey  Saxe  (1816-1887) 

The  Coquette  194 

James  Russell  Lowell  (1819-1891) 

The  Pious  Editor's  Creed  195 

What  Mr.  Robinson  thinks  199 

Frederick  Locker- Lampson  (1821-1895) 

To  my  Grandmother  201 

The  Bear  Pit  at  the  Zoological  Gardens  203 

The  Angora  Cat  204 

My  Life  is  a—  205 

Charles  Godfrey  Leland  i^'  Hans  Breitmann  ") 
(1824-1903) 

Hans  Breitmann's  Barty  206 

Ballad  of  the  Mermaid  207 

Charles    Lutwidge    Dodgson    ("Lewis   Carroll") 
(1832-1898) 

You  are  old.  Father  William  209 

Charles  Stuart  Calverley  (1831-1884) 

Ode  to  Tobacco  210 

Beer  211 
Ode — "On  a  Distant  Prospect"  of  making  a 

Fortune  215 

Striking  217 

11 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 

Sir  William  Schwenck  Gilbert 
The  Yarn  of  the  Nancy  Bell 
Haunted 

To  the  Terrestrial  Globe 
A  Nightmare 

Henry  Sambrooke  Leigh  (1837-1883) 

The  Moonlight  Sonata  227 

Francis  Bret  Harte  (1839-1902) 

The  Heathen  Chinee  229 

The  Society  upon  the  Stanislaus  231 

Austin  Dobson 

The  Last  Despatch  233 

Andrew  Lang 

To  the  Gentle  Reader  235 

Charles  L.  Graves 

Adieu  to  Argyll  237 

Rudolph  Chambers  Lehmann 

The  Runaway  Rhyme  238 

James  Kenneth  Stephen  (1859-1892) 

A  Political  Allegory  240 

Sir  Frederick  Pollock,  Bart. 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  a  College  Cat  243 

Arthur  A.  Sykes 

The  Splendid  Bankrupt  245 

Captain  John  Kendall 

Ode  to  the  Back  of  my  Head  247 

Love's  Colours  249 

12 


AN     ANTHOLOGY    OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


St.  John  Hankin  (1869-1909) 
De  Gustibus — 

Arthur  St.  John  Adcock 
By  Deputy 
My  Neighbour 

Owen  Seaman 
To  Emmeline 


250 


252 
253 


254 


IS 


INTRODUCTORY 


OF  WIT 

Tell  me,  O  tell,  what  kind  of  thing  is  Wit, 

Thou  who  Master  art  of  it. 
For  the  First  matter  loves  Variety  less  ; 
Less  Women  Jove't,  either  in  Love  or  Dress, 

A  thousand  different  shapes  it  bears, 

Comely  in  thousand  shapes  appears. 
Yonder  we  saw  it  plain ;  and  here  'tis  now 
Like  Spirits  in  a  Place,  we  know  not  How. 

London  that  vents  oi false  Ware  so  much  store, 

In  no  Ware  deceives  no  more. 
For  men  led  by  the  Colour,  and  the  Shape, 
Like  Zeuxes  Birds  fly  to  the  painted  Grape ; 

Some  things  do  through  our  Judgement  pass 

As  though  a  Multiplying  Glass. 
And  sometimes,  if  the  Object  be  too  far. 
We  take  a  Falling  Meteor  for  a  Star. 

Hence  'tis  a  Wit  that  greatest  word  of  Fame 

Grows  such  a  common  name. 
And  Wits  by  our  Creation  they  become. 
Just  so,  as  Tit'lar  Bishops  made  at  Rome, 

'Tis  not  a  Tale,  'tis  not  a  Jest 

Admir'd  with  laughter  at  a  feast, 
Nor  florid  Talk  which  can  that  Title  gain  ; 
The  Proofs  of  Wit  for  ever  must  remain. 

*Tis  not  to  force  some  lifeless  Verses  meet 

With  their  five  gowty  feet. 
All  ev'ry  where,  like  Mans,  must  be  the  Soul, 
And  Reason  the  Inferior  Powers  controul. 

Such  were  the  Numbers  which  could  call 

The  Stones  into  the  Theban  wall. 

15 


J23    f^    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
as    ^38    HUMOROUS   VERSE 

Such  Miracles  are  ceast ;  and  now  we  see 
No  Towns  or  Houses  rais'd  by  Poetrie, 

Yet  'tis  not  to  adorn,  and  gild  each  part ; 

That  shows  more  Cost,  then  Art. 
Jewels  at  Nose  and  Lips  but  ill  appear ; 
Rather  than  all  things  Wit,  let  none  be  there. 

Several  Lights  will  not  be  seen. 

If  there  be  nothing  else  between. 
Men  doubtj  because  they  stand  so  thick  i'  th'  skie, 
If  those  be  Stars  which  paint  the  Galaxie. 

*Tis  not  when  two  like  words  make  up  one  noise ; 

Jests  for  Dutch  Men,  and  English  Boys. 
In  which  who  finds  out  Wit,  the  same  may  see 
In  An  grams  and  Acrostiques  Poetrie. 

Much  less  can  that  have  any  place 

At  which  a  Virgin  hides  her  face, 
Such  Dress  the  Fire  must  purge  away  ;  'tis  just 
The  Author  bUish,  there  where  the  Reader  must. 

'Tis  not  such  Lines  as  almost  crack  the  Stage 

When  Bajazet  begins  to  rage. 
Now  a  tall  metaphor  in  the  Bombast  way, 
Now  the  dry  chips  of  short-lung'd  Seneca. 

Nor  upon  all  things  to  obtrude. 

And  force  some  odd  Similitude. 
What  is  it  then,  which  like  the  Poiver  Divine 
We  only  can  by  Negatives  define  } 

In  a  true  piece  of  Wit  all  things  must  be. 
Yet  all  things  there  agree, 

As  in  the  Ark,  joyn'd  without  force  or  strife. 

All  Creatures  dwelt ;  all  Creatures  that  had  Life. 
Or  as  the  Primitive  Forms  of  all 
(If  we  compare  great  things  with  small, 

Which  without  Discord  and  Confusion  lie. 

In  that  Strange  Mirror  of  the  Deitie. 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    fs?7 
HUMOROUS  VERSE    ^ 

But  Love  that  moulds  One  Man  up  out  of  Two, 

Makes  me  forget  and  injure  you. 
I  took^ow  for  my  self  sure  when  I  thought 
That  you  in  anything  were  to  be  Taught, 

Correct  my  error  with  thy  Pen ; 

And  if  any  ask  me  then, 
What  right  Wit,  and  height  of  Genius  is, 
I'll  only  shew  your  Lines,  and  say  'Tis  This. 

Abraham  Cowley 


17 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS  VERSE 

THE  INVITATION 

To  sup  with  thee  thou  didst  me  home  invite ; 

And  made  a  promise  that  mine  appetite 

Sho'd  meet  and  tire,  on  such  lautitious  meat, 

The  like  not  Heliogabalus  did  eat : 

And  richer  Wine  wo'dst  give  to  me  (thy  guest) 

That  Roman  Sylla  pour'd  out  at  his  feast. 

I  came  ;  (tis  true)  and  lookt  for  Fowle  of  price, 

The  bastard  Phenix  ;  bird  of  Paradise  ; 

And  for  no  less  than  Aromatick  Wine 

Of  Maydens-hlushf  commixt  with  Jessimme. 

Clean  was  the  berth,  the  mantle  larded  jet; 

Which  wanting  Lar,  and  smoke,  hung  weeping  wet ; 

At  last,  i'  th'  noone  of  winter,  did  appeare 

A  ragd-soust-neats-foot  with  sick  vineger  : 

And  in  a  burnisht  Flagonet  stood  by 

Beere  small  as  Comfort,  dead  as  Charity. 

At  which  amaz'd,  and  pondring  on  the  food, 

How  cold  it  was,  and  how  it  chill  my  blood  ; 

I  curst  the  master ;  and  I  damn'd  the  source ; 

And  swore  I'd  got  the  ague  of  the  house. 

Well,  when  to  eat  thou  dost  me  next  desire, 

rie  bring  a  Fever ;  since  thou  keep'st  no  fire. 

Robert  Herrick 


19 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


A  TERNARIE  OF  LITTLES,  UPON  A   PIPKIN 
OF  JELLIE  SENT  TO  A  LADY 

A  LITTLE  Saint  best  fits  a  little  Shrine, 

A  little  Prop  best  fits  a  little  Vine, 

As  ray  small  Cruse  best  fits  mj'  little  Wine. 

A  little  Seed  best  fits  a  little  Soyle, 

A  little  Trade  best  fits  a  little  Toyle : 

As  my  small  Jarre,  best  fits  my  little  Oyle. 

A  little  Bin  best  fits  a  little  Bread, 
A  little  Garland  fits  a  little  Head  : 
As  my  small  stuffe  best  fits  my  little  Shed. 

A  little  Hearth  best  fits  a  little  Fire, 

A  little  Chappell  fits  a  little  Quire, 

As  my  small  Bell  best  fits  my  little  Spire. 

A  little  Streame  best  fits  a  little  Boat ; 

A  little  lead  best  fits  a  little  Float ; 

As  my  small  Pipe  best  fits  my  little  Note. 

A  little  meat  best  fills  a  little  bellie, 

As  sweetly,  Lady,  give  me  leave  to  tell  ye. 

This  little  pipkin  fits  this  little  Jellie. 

Robert  Herrick 


SO 


AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  REMONSTRANCE 


Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  pale  ? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her. 

Looking  ill  prevail  ? 

Pry  thee,  why  so  pale  ? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her. 

Saying  nothing  do't  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  mute  ? 

Quit,  quit,  for  shame  !  this  will  not  move. 

This  cannot  take  her  ; — 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love. 
Nothing  can  make  her. 
The  Devil  take  her. 

Sir  John  Suckling 


THE  CONSTANT  LOVER 


Out  upon  it,  I  have  lov'd 

Three  whole  days  together ; 
And  am  like  to  love  three  more, 

If  it  prove  fair  weather. 

Time  shall  moult  away  his  wings. 

Ere  he  shall  discover 
In  the  whole  wide  world  again 

Such  a  constant  lover. 

21 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

But  the  spite  on't  is,  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me ; 
Love  with  me  had  made  no  stays. 

Had  it  any  been  but  she. 

Had  it  any  been  but  she, 

And  that  very  face, 
There  had  been  at  least  ere  this 

A  dozen  in  her  place. 

Sir  John  Suckling  • 


TO  A  BAD  POET 

Great  famous  wit !  whose  rich  and  easy  vein, 

Free,  and  unus'd  to  drudgery  and  pain. 

Has  all  Apollo's  treasure  at  command. 

And  how  good  verse  is  coin'd  dost  understand. 

In  all  Wit's  combats  master  of  defence. 

Tell  me,  how  dost  thou  pass  on  rhyme  and  sense  ? 

'Tis  said  they  apply  to  thee,  and  in  thy  verse 

Do  freely  range  themselves  as  volunteers. 

And  without  pain,  or  pumping  for  a  word. 

Place  themselves  fitly  of  their  own  accord, 

I,  whom  a  lewd  caprice  (for  some  great  crime 

I  have  committed)  has  condemn'd  to  rhyme. 

With  slavish  obstinacy  vex  my  brain. 

To  reconcile  them,  but,  alas !  in  vain^ 

Sometimes  I  set  my  brains  upon  the  rack. 

And,  when  I  would  say  white,  the  verse  says  black ; 

When  I  would  draw  a  brave  man  to  the  life. 

It  names  some  slave  that  pimps  to  his  own  wife. 

Or  base  poltroon,  that  would  have  sold  his  daughter. 

If  he  had  met  with  any  to  have  bought  her. 

S2 


^    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    f>?75    KJH    f^ 
C^    HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^^    ^    IS 

When  I  would  praise  an  author,  the  untoward 

Damn'd  sense  says  Virgil,  but  the  rhyme  [says  Howard*] ; 

In  fine,  whate'er  I  strive  to  bring  about, 

The  contrary  (spite  of  my  heat)  comes  out. 

Sometimes,  enrag'd  for  time  and  pains  misspent, 

1  give  it  over,  tir'd  and  discontent. 

And,  damning  the  dull  fiend  a  thousand  times 

By  whom  I  was  possess' d,  forswear  all  rhymes  ; 

But,  having  curs'd  the  Muses,  they  appear, 

To  be  reveng'd  for't,  ere  I  am  aware. 

Spite  of  myself,  I  strait  take  fire  again. 

And,  breaking  all  the  oaths  I  made,  in  vain 

From  verse  to  verse  expect  their  aid  again. 

But,  if  my  muse  or  I  were  so  discreet 

T'endure,  for  rhyme's  sake,  one  dull  epithet, 

I  might,  like  others,  easily  command 

Words  without  study,  ready  and  at  hand. 

In  praising  Chloris,  moons,  and  stars,  and  skies. 

Are  quickly  made  to  match  her  face  and  eyes — 

And  gold  and  rubies,  with  as  little  care, 

To  get  the  colour  of  her  lips  and  hair  ; 

And,  mixing  suns,  and  flowers,  and  pearls,  and  stones. 

Make  them  serve  all  complexions  at  once. 

Were  these  fine  fancies,  at  hap-hazard  writ, 

I  could  make  verses  without  art  or  wit. 

And,  shifting  forty  times  the  verb  and  noun. 

With  stolen  impertinence  patch  up  mine  own: 

But  in  the  choice  of  words  my  scrupulous  wit 

Is  fearful  to  pass  one  that  is  unfit ; 

Nor  can  endure  to  fill  up  a  void  place. 

At  a  line's  end,  with  one  insipid  phrase ; 

And,  therefore,  when  I  scribble  twenty  times. 

When  I  have  written  four,  I  blot  two  rhymes. 

May  he  be  damn'd  who  first  found  out  that  curse, 

T'imprison  and  confine  his  thoughts  in  verse ; 

To  hang  so  dull  a  clog  upon  his  wit, 

And  make  his  reason  to  his  rhyme  submit ! 

*  See  Butler's  Palenodie  to  the  HonmraUe  Edward  Howard y  Esq. 

23 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Without  this  plague^  I  freely  might  have  spent 
My  happy  days  with  leisure  and  content : 
Had  nothing  in  the  world  to  do  or  think, 

Like  a  fat  priest,  but ,  and  eat,  and  drink  ; 

Had  past  my  time  as  pleasantly  away. 

Slept  all  the  night,  and  loiter'd  all  the  day. 

My  soul,  that's  free  from  care,  and  fear,  and  hope, 

Knows  how  to  make  her  own  ambition  stoop, 

T'avoid  uneasy  greatness  and  resort, 

Or  for  preferment  following  the  Court. 


How  happy  had  I  been  if,  for  a  curse. 
The  Fates  had  never  sentenc'd  me  to  verse 
But,  ever  since  this  peremptory  vein. 
With  restless  frenzy,  first  possess'd  my  brain, 
And  that  the  devil  tempted  me,  in  spite 
Of  my  own  happiness,  to  judge  and  write. 
Shut  up  against  my  will,  I  waste  my  age 
In  mending  this,  and  blotting  out  that  page, 
And  grow  so  weary  of  the  slavish  trade, 
I  envy  their  condition  that  write  bad. 
O  happy  Scudery  !  whose  easy  quill 
Can,  once  a  month,  a  mighty  volume  fill ; 
For,  though  thy  works  are  written  in  despite 
Of  all  good  sense,  impertinent  and  slight. 
They  never  have  been  known  to  stand  in  need 
Of  stationer  to  sell,  or  sot  to  read  ; 
For,  so  the  rhyme  be  at  the  verse's  end. 
No  matter  whither  all  the  rest  does  tend. 
Unhappy  is  that  man  who,  in  spite  of  's  heart. 
Is  forc'd  to  be  ty'd  up  to  rules  of  art. 
A  fop  that  scribbles  does  it  with  delight. 
Takes  no  pains  to  consider  what  to  write. 
But,  fond  of  all  the  nonsense  he  brings  forth. 
Is  ravish'd  with  his  own  great  wit  and  worth ; 
24 


^    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
CSi    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

While  brave  and  noble  writers  vainly  strive 

To  such  a  height  of  glory  to  arrive  ; 

But_,  still  with  all  they  do  unsatisfy'd, 

Ne'er  please  themselves^  though  all  the  world  beside 

And  those  whom  all  mankind  admire  for  wit. 

Wish,  for  their  own  sakes,  they  had  never  writ. 

Thou,  then,  that  see'st  how  ill  I  spend  my  time. 

Teach  me,  for  pity,  how  to  make  a  rhyme ; 

And,  if  th'  instructions  chance  to  prove  in  vain, 

Teach — how  ne'er  to  write  again. 

Samuel  Butler 


THE  CHRONICLE 

Magarita  first  possest, 

If  I  remember  well,  my  brest, 
Margarita  first  of  all ; 
But  when  awhile  the  wanton  Maid 
With  my  restless  heart  had  plaid, 
Martha  took  the  flying  Ball. 

Martha  soon  did  it  resign 
To  the  beauteous  Catharine. 
Beauteous  Catharine  gave  place 
(Though  loth  and  angry  she  to  part 
With  the  possession  of  my  Heart) 
To  Elisa's  conquering  face. 

EUsa  till  this  Hour  might  reign 

Had  she  not  Evil  Counsels  ta'en. 
Fundamental  Laws  she  broke. 
And  still  new  Favorites  she  chose, 
Till  up  in  Arms^  my  Passions  rose. 
And  cast  away  her  yoke. 


25 


36 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Mary  then  and  gentle  Ann 

Both  to  reign  at  once  began. 

Alternately  they  sway'd, 
And  sometimes  Mary  was  the  Fairj 
And  sometimes  Ann  the  Crojvn  did  wear. 

And  sometimes  Both  I  obey'd. 

Another  Mary  then  arose 

And  did  rigorous  Laws  impose. 
A  mighty  Tyrant  she  ! 

Long,  alas,  should  I  have  been 

Under  that  Iron- Scepter'* d  Queen, 
Had  not  Rebecca  set  me  free. 

When  fair  Rebecca  set  me  free, 

'Twas  then  a  Golden  Time  with  me. 
But  soon  those  pleasures  fled. 

For  the  gracious  Princess  dy'd 

In  her  Youth  and  Beauties'  pride. 
And  Judith  reigned  in  her  sted. 

One  Month,  three  Days,  and  half  an  Hour 
Judith  held  the  Sovereign  Power, 
Wondrous  beautiful  her  Face, 

But  so  weak  and  small  her  Wit, 

That  she  to  govern  was  unfit. 

And  so  Susanna  took  her  place. 

But  when  Isabella  came 

Arm'd  with  a  resistless  flame 
And  th'  Artillery  of  her  Eye  ; 

\^Tiilst  she  proudly  marcht  about 

Greater  Conquests  to  find  out. 

She  beat  out  Susan  by  the  by. 

But  in  her  place  I  then  obey'd 

Black-ey'd  Besse,  her  Viceroy-Maid, 
To  whom  ensued  a  Vacancy. 

Thousand  worse  Passions  then  possest 

The  Interregnum  of  my  brest. 

Bless  me  from  such  an  Anarchy  ! 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    fsJZ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^ffl 

Gentle  Henriette  then 

And  a  third  Mary  next  began, 
Then  Jone^  and  Jane,  and  Audria. 

And  then  a  pretty  Thomasine, 

And  then  another  Katharine^ 
And  then  a  long  Et  cetera. 

But  should  I  now  to  you  relate, 

The  strength  and  riches  of  their  state. 
The  Powder,  Patches^  and  the  Pins, 
The  Ribbons,  Jewels,  and  the  Riiigs, 
The  Lace,  the  Paint,  and  warlike  things 
That  make  up  all  their  Magazins  : 

If  I  should  tell  the  politick  Arts 

I'd  take  and  keep  men's  hearts. 
The  Letters,  Embassies,  and"  Spies, 

The  Frowns,  and  Smiles,  and  Flatteries, 

The  Quarrels,  Tears,  and  Perjuries, 
Numberless,  Nameless  Mysteries  ! 

And  all  the  Little  Lime-twigs  laid 

By  Matchavil  the  Waiting-Maid  ; 
I  more  voluminous  should  grow 

(Chiefly  if  I  like  them  should  tell 

All  change  of  Weathers  that  befell) 
Than  Holinshead  or  Stow. 

But  I  will  briefer  with  them  be. 

Since  few  of  them  were  long  with  Me 
An  higher  and  a  nobler  strain 

My  present  Emperess  does  claim, 

Heleonora  First  o  tK  Name  ; 

Whom  God  grant  long  to  reign  ! 

Abraham  Cowley 


27 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


AN  HOLY  SISTER 

She  that  can  sit  three  sermons  in  a  day. 

And  of  those  three  scarce  bear  three  words  away ; 

She  that  can  rob  her  husband,  to  repair 

A  budget-priest,  that  noses  a  long  prayer ; 

She  that  with  lamp-black  purifies  her  shoes, 

And  with  half-eyes  and  Bible  softly  goes ; 

She  that  her  pockets  with  lay-gospel  stuffs. 

And  edifies  her  books  with  little  ruffs ; 

She  that  loves  sermons  as  she  does  the  rest. 

Still  standing  stiff  that  longest  are  the  best ; 

She  that  at  christenings  thirsteth  for  more  sack. 

And  draws  the  bfOadest  handkerchief  for  cake ; 

She  that  sings  psalms  devoutly,  next  the  street. 

And  beats  her  maid  i'  th'  kitchen  where  none  see't ; 

She  that  will  sit  in  shop  for  five  hours'  space. 

And  register  the  sins  of  all  that  pass, 

Damn  at  first  sight,  and  proudly  dares  to  say 

That  none  can  possibly  be  saved  but  they 

That  hang  religion  in  a  naked  ear. 

And  judge  men's  hearts  according  to  their  hair; 

That  could  afford  to  doubt,  who  wrote  best  sense, 

Moses,  or  Dod  on  the  commandments  ; 

She  that  can  sigh,  and  cry  "  Queen  Elizabeth," 

Rail  at  the  Pope,  and  scratch-out  "  sudden  death  "  : 

And  for  all  this  can  give  no  reason  why : 

This  is  an  holy  sister,  verily. 

Abraham  Cowley 


29 


HS    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
CSa    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

MERRY  ANDREW 

Sly  Merry  Andrew,  the  last  Southwark  fair 

(At  Barthol'mew  he  did  not  much  appear : 

So  peevish  was  the  edict  of  the  Mayor) 

At  Southwark,  therefore,  as  his  tricks  he  show'd. 

To  please  our  masters,  and  his  friends  the  crowd ; 

A  huge  neat's  tongue  he  in  his  right  hand  held ; 

His  left  was  with  a  good  black  pudding  fill'd. 

With  a  grave  look,  in  this  odd  equipage. 

The  clownish  mimic  traverses  the  stage  : 

"  Why,  how  now,  Andrew !  "  cries  his  brother  droll, 

"  To-day's  conceit,  methinks,  is  something  dull  : 

Come  on,  sir,  to  our  worthy  friends  explain 

What  does  your  emblematic  worship  mean  ?  " 

Quoth  Andrew  :  "  Honest  English  let  us  speak  : 

Your  emble— (what  d'ye  call  't)  is  heathen  Greek. 

To  tongue  or  pudding  thou  hast  no  pretence; 

Learning  thy  talent  is,  but  mine  is  sense. 

That  busy  fool  I  was  which  thou  art  now ; 

Desirous  to  correct,  not  knowing  how. 

With  very  good  design,  but  little  wit. 

Blaming  or  praising  things,  as  I  thought  fit. 

I  for  this  conduct  had  what  I  deserv'd ; 

And  dealing  honestly,  was  almost  starv'd. 

But,  thanks  to  my  indulgent  stars,  I  eat ; 

Since  I  have  found  the  secret  to  be  great." 

"  O,  dearest  Andrew,"  says  the  humble  droll, 

"  Henceforth  may  I  obey,  and  thou  control ; 

Provided  thou  impart  thy  useful  skill, — " 

"  Bow  then,"  says  Andrew  ;  "  and,  for  once,  I  will — 

Be  of  your  patron's  mind,  whate'er  he  says  ; 

Sleep  very  much,  think  little,  and  talk  less ; 

Mind  neither  good  nor  bad,  nor  right  nor  wrong. 

But  eat  your  pudding,  slave;  and  hold  your  tongue. 

A  reverend  prelate  stopp'd  his  coach  and  six. 
To  laugh  a  little  at  our  Andrew's  tricks. 
But  when  he  heard  him  give  this  golden  rule, 
"  Drive  on  "  (he  cried) ;  "  this  fellow  is  no  fool." 

Matthew  Prior 

29 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


A  REASONABLE  AFFLICTION 

On  his  death-bed  poor  Lubin  lies ; 

His  spouse  is  in  despair ; 
With  frequent  sobs  and  mutual  cries, 

They  both  express  their  care. 

"  A  different  cause,"  says  Parson  Sly, 
^^  The  same  eifect  may  give  : 

Poor  Lubin  fears  that  he  may  die  ; 
His  wife,  that  he  may  live." 

Matthew  Prior 


PHILLIS^S  AGE 


How  old  may  Phillis  be,  you  ask. 

Whose  beauty  thus  all  hearts  engages  } 

To  answer  is  no  easy  task  : 
For  she  has  really  two  ages. 

Stiff  in  brocade,  and  pinched  in  stays. 
Her  patches,  paint,  and  jewels  on ; 

All  day  let  envy  view  her  face. 
And  Phillis  is  but  twenty-one. 

Paint,  patches,  jewels  laid  aside. 

At  night  astronomers  agree. 
The  evening  has  the  day  belied ; 

And  Phillis  is  some  forty-three. 

Matthew  Prior 


30 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  REMEDY  WORSE  THAN  THE 
DISEASE 

I  SENT  for  RatclifFe ;  was  so  ill 
That  other  doctors  gave  me  over : 

He  felt  my  pulse — prescrib'd  his  pill. 
And  I  was  likely  to  recover. 

But  when  the  wit  began  to  wheeze. 
And  wine  had  warm'd  the  politician, 

Cur'd  yesterday  of  my  disease, 
I  died  last  night  of  my  physician. 

Matthew  Prior 


NELL  AND  JOHN 

When  Nell,  given  o'er  by  the  doctor,  was  dying. 
And  John  at  the  chimney  stood  decently  crying ; 
"  'Tis  in  vain,"  said  the  woman,  "  to  make  such  ado 
For  to  our  long  home  we  must  all  of  us  go  !  " 

"  True,  Nell,"  replied  John ;  "  but,  what  yet  isthe   worst 
For  us  that  remain,  the  best  always  go  first ; 
Remember,  dear  wife,  that  I  said  so  last  year, 
When  you  lost  your  white  heifer,  and  I  my  brown  mare ! ' 

Matthew  Prior 


31 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


AN  EPITAPH 

iNTERR'd  beneath  this  marble  stone 

Lie  sauntering  Jack  and  idle  Joan. 

While  rolling  threescore  years  and  one 

Did  round  this  globe  their  courses  run ; 

If  human  things  went  ill  or  well ; 

If  changing  empires  rose  or  fell ; 

The  morning  past,  the  evening  came. 

And  found  this  couple  still  the  same. 

They  walk'd  and  ate,  good  folks  :  what  then  ? 

Why  then  they  walk'd  and  ate  again  : 

They  soundly  slept  the  night  away; 

They  did  just  nothing  all  the  day; 

And  having  buried  children  four. 

Would  not  take  pains  to  try  for  more  : 

Nor  sister  either  had,  nor  brother ; 

They  seemed  just  tallied  for  each  other. 

Their  moral  and  economy 
Most  perfectly  they  made  agree  : 
Each  virtue  kept  its  proper  bound. 
Nor  trespass'd  on  the  other's  ground. 
Nor  fame,  nor  censure  they  regarded ; 
They  neither  punish'd  nor  rewarded. 
He  cared  not  what  the  footman  did ; 
Her  maids  she  neither  praised  nor  chid ; 
So  every  servant  took  his  course ; 
And  bad  at  first,  they  all  grew  worse. 
Slothful  disorder  filled  his  stable  ; 
And  sluttish  plenty  deck'd  her  table. 
Their  beer  was  strong ;  their  wine  was  port ; 
Their  meal  was  large ;  their  grace  was  short. 
They  gave  the  poor  the  remnant  meat, 
Just  when  it  grew  not  fit  to  eat. 

They  paid  the  church  and  parish  rate; 
And  took,  but  read  not  the  receipt : 
For  which  they  claim  their  Sunday's  due. 
Of  slumbering  in  an  upper  pew. 
32 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

No  man's  defects  sought  they  to  know; 
So  never  made  themselves  a  foe. 
No  man's  good  deeds  did  they  commend ; 
So  never  rais'd  themselves  a  friend. 
Nor  cherished  they  relations  poor ; 
That  might  decrease  their  present  store  : 
Nor  bam  nor  house  did  they  repair ; 
That  might  oblige  their  future  heir. 

They  neither  added  nor  confounded  ; 
They  neither  wanted  nor  abounded. 
Each  Christmas  they  accompts  did  clear 
And  wound  their  bottom  round  the  year. 
Nor  tear  nor  smile  did  they  employ 
At  news  of  public  grief,  or  joy. 
When  bells  were  rung,  and  bonfires  made. 
If  ask'd,  they  ne'er  denied  their  aid  ; 
Their  jug  was  to  the  ringers  carried. 
Whoever  either  died,  or  man*ied. 
Their  billet  at  the  fire  was  found, 
Whoever  was  depos'd,  or  crown'd. 

Nor  good,  nor  bad,  nor  fools,  nor  wise ; 
They  would  not  learn,  nor  could  advise : 
Without  love,  hatred,  joy,  or  fear. 
They  led — a  kind  of — as  it  were ; 
Nor  wish'd,  nor  card,   nor  laugh'd,  nor  cried : 
And  so  they  liv'd,  and  so  they  died. 

Matthew  Prior 


as 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


MARY  THE  COOK-MAID^S  LETTER  TO 
DR.  SHERIDAN 

Well,  if  ever  I  saw  such  another  man  since  my  mother 

bound  my  head  I 
You  a  gentleman !  marry  come  up !  I  wonder  where  you 

were  bred. 
I'm  sure  such  words  do  not  become  a  man  of  your  cloth ; 
I  would  not  give  such  language  to  a  dog,  faith  and  troth. 
Yes,  you  call'd  my  master  a  knave  :  fie,  Mr.  Sheridan  ! 

't  is  a  shame 
For  a  parson,  who  should  know  better  things,  to  come  out 

with  such  a  name, 
Knave  in  your  teeth,  Mr.  Sheridan!  't  is  both  a  shame 

and  a  sin ; 
And  the  Dean,  my  master,  is  an  honester  man  than  you 

and  all  your  kin : 
He  has  more  goodness  in  his  little  finger,  than  you  have  in 

your  whole  body : 
My  master  is  a  personable  man,  and  not  a  spindle-shank'd 

hoddy-doddy. 
And  now,  whereby  I  find  you  would  fain  make  an  excuse. 
Because  my  master  one  day,  in  anger,  call'd  you  a  goose ; 
Which,  and  I  am  sure  I  have  been  his  servant  four  years  since 

October, 
And  he  never  call'd  me  worse  than  sweetheart,  drunk  or 

sober : 
Not  that  I  know  that  his  reverence  was  ever  concem'd  to 

my  knowledge. 
Though  you  and  your  come- rogues  keep  him  out  so  late  in 

your  college. 
You  say  you  will  eat  grass  on  his  grave  :  a  Christian  eat 

grass! 
Whereby  you  now  confess  yourself  to  be  a  goose  or  an  ass  : 
But  that's  as  much  as  to  say  that  my  master  should  die 

before  ye ; 
Well,  well,  that's  as  God  pleases;  and    I    don't   believe 

that's  a  true  story  : 
34 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS^VERSE 

And  so  say  I  told  you  so,  and  you  may  go  tell  my  master ; 

what  care  I  ? 
And  I  don't  care  who  knows  it,  't  is  all  one  to  Mary  ; 
Every  one  knows  that  I  love  to  tell  truth  and  shame  the 

devil ; 
I  am  but  a  poor  servant,  but  I  think  gentlefolks  should  be 

civil. 
Besides,  you  found  fault  with  victuals  one  day  that  you 

was  here  : 
I  remember  it  was  a  Tuesday  of  all  days  in  the  year. 
And  Saunders  the  man  says  you  were  always  jesting  and 

mocking : 
Mary,  said  he,  (one  day  as  I  was  mending  my  master's 

stocking) 
My  master  is  so  fond  of  that  minister  that  keeps  the  school, 
I  thought  my  master  was  a  wise  man,  but  that  man  makes 

him  a  fool. 
Saunders,  said  I,  I  would  rather  than  a  quart  of  ale 
He  would  come  into  our  kitchen,  and  I  would  pin  a  dish- 
clout  to  his  tail. 
And  now  I  must  go  and  get  Saunders  to  direct  this  letter  ; 
For  I  write  but  a  sad  scrawl;  but  my  sister  Marget  she 

writes  better. 
Well,  but  I  must  run  and  make  the  bed,  before  my  master 

comes  from  prayers ; 
And  see  now,  it  strikes  ten,  and  I  hear  him  coming  upstairs  ; 
Whereof  I  could  say  more  to  your  verses,  if  I  could  write 

written  hand ; 
And  so  I  remain  in  a  civil  way,  your  servant  to  command, 

Mary. 
Jonathan  Swift 


as 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  FURNITURE  OF  A  WOMAN^S  MIND 

A  SET  of  phrases  leam'd  by  rote ; 
A  passion  for  a  scarlet  coat ; 
When  at  a  play,  to  laugh  and  cry. 
Yet  cannot  tell  the  reason  why  ; 
Never  to  hold  her  tongue  a  minute. 
While  all  she  prates  has  nothing  in  it ; 
Whole  hours  can  with  a  coxcomb  sit, 
And  take  his  nonsense  all  for  wit ; 
Her  learning  mounts  to  read  a  song, 
But  half  the  words  pronouncing  wrong  ; 
Has  every  repartee  in  store 
She  spoke  ten  thousand  times  before  ; 
Can  ready  compliments  supply 
On  all  occasions  cut  and  dry  ; 
Such  hatred  to  a  parson's  gown. 
The  sight  would  put  her  in  a  swoon  ; 
For  conversation  well  endued. 
She  calls  it  witty  to  be  rude  ; 
And,  placing  raillery  in  railing, 
Will  tell  aloud  your  greatest  failing ; 
Nor  make  a  scruple  to  expose 
Your  bandy  leg  or  crooked  nose ; 
Can  at  her  morning  tea  run  o'er 
The  scandal  of  the  day  before ; 
Improving  hourly  in  her  skill, 
To  cheat  and  wrangle  at  quadrille. 

In  choosing  lace  a  critic  nice. 
Knows  to  a  groat  the  lowest  price  ; 
Can  in  her  female  clubs  dispute 
What  linen  best  the  silk  will  suit ; 
What  colours  each  complexion  match. 
And  where  with  art  to  place  a  patch. 

If  chance  a  mouse  creeps  in  her  sight. 
Can  finely  counterfeit  a  fright ; 
So  sweetly  screams,  if  it  comes  near  her. 
She  ravishes  all  hearts  to  hear  her. 
36 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Can  dext'rously  her  husband  teaze, 

By  taking  fits  where'er  she  please ; 

By  frequent  practice  learns  the  trick 

At  proper  seasons  to  be  sick ; 

Thinks  nothing  gives  one  airs  so  pretty. 

At  once  creating  love  and  pity ; 

I  f  Molly  happens  to  be  careless. 

And  but  neglects  to  warm  her  hair-lace, 

She  gets  a  cold  as  sure  as  death, 

And  vows  she  scarce  can  fetch  her  breath  ; 

Admires  how  modest  women  can 

Be  so  robustious  like  a  man. 

In  party,  furious  to  her  power ; 
A  bitter  Whig,  or  Tory  sour ; 
Her  arguments  directly  tend 
Against  the  side  she  would  defend ; 
Will  prove  herself  a  Tory  plain. 
From  principles  the  Whigs  maintain ; 
And,  to  defend  the  Whiggish  cause, 
Her  topics  from  the  Tories  draws. 

O  yes !  if  any  man  can  find 
More  virtues  in  a  woman's  mind. 
Let  them  be  sent  to  Mrs.  Harding ;  * 
She'll  pay  the  charges  to  a  farthing ; 
Take  notice,  she  has  my  commission 
To  add  them  in  the  next  edition ; 
They  may  outsell  a  better  thing : 
So,  holla,  boys  :  God  save  the  King  ! 

Jonathan  Swift 

♦  Widow  of  John  Harding,  the  Drapier's  printer. 


37 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME 

As  Thomas  was  cudgel' d  one  day  by  his  wife, 

He  took  to  the  street,  and  fled  for  his  life  : 

Tom's  three  dearest  friends  came  by  in  the  squabble, 

And  sav'd  him  at  once  from  the  shrew  and  the  rabble ; 

Then  ventur'd  to  give  him  some  sober  advice ; — 

But  Tom  is  a  person  of  honour  so  nice, 

Too  wise  to  take  counsel,  too  proud  to  take  warning, 

That  he  sent  to  all  three  a  challenge  next  morning  ; 

Three  duels  he  fought,  thrice  ventur'd  his  life ; 

Went  home,  and  was  cudgel'd  again  by  his  wife. 

Jonathan  Swift 


AN  ELEGY  ON  A  LAP-DOG 

Shock's  fate  I  mourn ;  poor  Shock  is  now  no  more. 
Ye  muses  mourn,  ye  chamber-maids  deplore. 
Unhappy  Shock  !  Yet  more  unhappy  Fair, 
Doom'd  to  survive  thy  joy  and  only  care  ! 
Thy  wretched  fingers  now  no  more  shall  deck, 
And  tye  the  fav'rite  ribband  round  his  neck  ; 
No  more  thy  hand  shall  smooth  his  glossy  hair. 
And  comb  the  wavings  of  his  pendent  ear. 
Yet  cease  thy  flowing  grief,  forsaken  maid ; 
All  mortal  pleasures  in  a  moment  fade  : 
Our  surest  hope  is  in  an  hour  destroy'd. 
And  love,  best  gift  of  heav'n,  not  long  enjoy 'd. 

Methinks  I  see  her  frantick  with  despair, 
Her  streaming  eyes,  wrung  hands,  and  flowing  hair; 
Her  Mechlen  fineness  rent  the  floor  bestrow. 
And  her  torn  fan  gives  real  signs  of  woe. 
S8 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^^ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^ 

Hence  superstition,  that  tormenting  guest. 
That  haunts  with  fancy'd  fears  the  coward  breast ; 
No  dread  events  upon  this  fate  attend, 
Stream  eyes  no  more,  no  more  thy  tresses  rend. 
Tho'  certain  omens  oft  forewarn  a  state, 
And  dying  lions  show  the  monarch's  fate ; 
Why  should  such  fears  bid  Celia's  sorrow  rise  ? 
For  when  a  Lap-dog  falls  no  lover  dies. 

Cease,  Celia,  cease ;  restrain  thy  flowing  tears, 
Some  warmer  passion  will  dispel  thy  cares. 
In  man  you'll  find  a  more  substantial  bliss. 
More  graceful  toying,  and  a  sweeter  kiss. 

He's  dead.     Oh  lay  him  gently  in  the  ground ! 
And  may  his  tomb  be  by  this  verse  renown'd : 
Here  Shock,  the  pride  of  all  his  kind,  is  laid  ; 
Who  fawn  d  like  man,  but  ne'er  Uke  man  betray*  d. 

John  Gay 


TO  A  LADY,  ON  HEK  PASSION  FOR 
OLD  CHINA 

What  ecstasies  her  bosom  fire  ! 
How  her  eyes  languish  with  desire ! 
How  blest,  how  happy  should  I  be. 
Were  that  fond  glance  bestowed  on  me 
New  doubts  and  fears  within  me  war : 
What  rival's  near  ?  a  China  jar. 

Chinas  the  passion  of  her  soul ; 
A  cup,  a  plate,  a  dish,  a  bowl 
Can  kindle  wishes  in  her  breast. 
Inflame  with  joy,  or  break  her  rest. 


39 


^    K3    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 

as   lSs   humorous  verse 

Some  gems  collect ;  some  medals  prize. 
And  view  the  rust  with  lover's  eyes ; 
Some  court  the  stars  at  midnight  hours ; 
Some  doat  on  Nature's  charm  in  flowers  I 
But  ev'rj'  beauty  I  can  trace 
In  Laura  s  mind,  in  Laura  s  face  ; 
My  stars  are  in  this  brighter  sphere. 
My  lily  and  my  rose  is  here. 

Philosophers  more  grave  than  wise 

Hunt  science  down  in  butterflies; 

Or  fondly  poring  on  a  spider, 

Stretch  human  contemplation  wider ; 

Fossils  give  joy  to  Galen's  soul, 

He  dys  for  knowledge,  like  a  mole ; 

In  shells  so  leam'd,  that  all  agree 

No  fish  that  swims  knows  more  than  he ! 

In  such  pursuits  if  wisdom  lies. 

Who,  Laura,  shall  thy  taste  despise  ? 

When  I  some  antique  Jar  behold, 
Or  white,  or  blue,  or  speck'd  with  gold. 
Vessels  so  pure,  and  so  refin'd. 
Appear  the  types  of  woman-kind  : 
Are  they  not  valu'd  for  their  beauty, 
'loo  fair,  too  fine  for  household  duty? 
With  flowers  and  gold  and  azure  dy'd. 
Of  ev'ry  house  the  grace  and  pride  ? 
How  white,  how  polish'd  is  their  skin. 
And  valu'd  most  when  only  seen ! 
She  who  before  was  highest  priz'd 
Is  for  a  crack  or  flaw  despis'd ; 
I  grant  they're  frail,  yet  they're  so  rare. 
The  treasure  cannot  cost  too  dear  ' 
But  man  is  made  of  coarser  stuff". 
And  serves  convenience  well  enough ; 
He's  a  strong  earthen  vessel  made. 
For  drudging,  labour,  toil,  and  trade; 
And  M'hen  wives  lose  their  other  self. 
With  ease  they  bear  the  loss  of  Delf, 
40 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    BH 

Husbands  more  covetous  than  sage 
Condemn  this  China-buying  rage  ; 
They  count  that  woman's  prudence  httle, 
Who  sets  her  heart  on  things  so  brittle. 
But  are  those  wise-men's  inclinations 
Fixt  on  more  strong,  more  sure  foundations 
If  all  that's  frail  we  must  despise, 
No  human  view  or  scheme  is  wise. 
Are  not  Ambition's  hopes  as  weak  ? 
They  swell  like  bubbles,  shine  and  break. 
A  Courtier's  promise  is  so  slight, 
'Tis  made  at  noon,  and  broke  at  night. 
What  pleasure's  sure  ?  The  Miss  you  keep 
Breaks  both  your  fortune  and  your  sleep. 
The  man  who  loves  a  country  life. 
Breaks  all  the  comforts  of  his  wife ; 
And  if  he  quit  his  farm  and  plough. 
His  wife  in  town  may  break  her  vow. 
Love,  Laura,  love,  while  youth  is  warm. 
For  each  new  winter  breaks  a  charm ; 
And  woman's  not  like  China  sold, 
But  cheaper  grows  in  growing  old ; 
Then  quickly  chuse  the  prudent  part, 
Or  else  you  break  a  faithful  heart. 

John  Gay 


41 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


TO  MR.  JOHN  MOORE 

AUTHOR   OF  THE   CELEBEATED   WORM-POWDER 

How  much,  egregious  Moore,  are  we 

Deceiv'd  by  show  and  forms  ! 
Whate'er  we  think,  whate'er  we  see, 

All  humankind  are  Worms. 

Man  is  a  very  Worm  by  birth. 

Vile  reptile,  weak,  and  vain  ! 
A  while  he  crawls  upon  the  earth, 

Then  shrinks  to  earth  again. 

That  Woman  is  a  Worm,  we  find 
E'er  since,  our  Grandame's  evil. 

She  first  convers'd  with  her  own  kind, 
That  ancient  Worm,  the  Devil. 

The  Learn'd  themselves  we  Book-worms  name. 
The  Blockhead  is  a  Slow-worm  ; 

The  Nymph  whose  tail  is  all  on  fiame. 
Is  aptly  term'd  a  Glow-worm. 

The  Fops  are  painted  Butterflies, 

That  flutter  for  a  day ; 
First  from  a  Worm  they  take  their  rise. 

And  in  a  Worm  decay. 

The  Flatterer  an  Earwig  grows  ; 

Thus  Worms  suit  all  conditions  ; 
Misers  are  Muck-worms,  Silk-worms  Beaus, 

And  Death-watches  Physicians. 

That  Statesmen  have  the  Worm,  is  seen 

By  all  their  winding  play  ; 
Their  conscience  is  a  Worm  within, 

That  gnaws  them  night  and  day. 
42 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Ah  Moore  !  thy  skill  were  well  employ'd, 

And  greater  gain  would  rise. 
If  thou  couldst  make  the  Courtier  void 

The  worm  that  never  dies. 

O  learned  Friend  of  Abckurch-Lane, 

Who  sett'st  our  entrails  free  ! 
Vain  is  thy  Art,  thy  Powder  vain. 

Since  Worms  shall  eat  ev'n  thee. 

Our  Fate  thou  only  canst  adjourn 
Some  few  short  years,  no  more ! 

Ev'n  Button's  Wits  to  Worms  shall  turn. 
Who  Maggots  were  before. 

Alexander  Pope 


TO  SIR  ROBERT  WALPOLE 

WEITTEN   IN   THE   YEAR    1730 

Sir, 

While  at  the  helm  of  state  you  ride. 
Our  nation's  envy,  and  its  pride; 
While  foreign  courts  with  wonder  gaze, 
And  curse  those  councils  which  they  praise ; 
Would  you  not  wonder,  sir,  to  view 
Your  bard  a  greater  man  than  you  ? 
Which  that  he  is,  you  cannot  doubt. 
When  you  have  read  the  sequel  out. 

You  know,  great  sir,  that  ancient  fellows 
Philosophers,  and  such  folk,  tell  us, 
No  great  analogy  between 
Greatness  and  happiness  is  seen. 

4.3 


H 


[^2^    K?1    [>2:^    JS3    AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
as    E2b    ^    Ea    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

If  then,  as  it  might  follow  straight. 
Wretched  to  be,  is  to  be  great. 
Forbid  it,  gods,  that  you  should  try 
What  'tis  to  be  as  great  as  I, 

The  family  that  dines  the  latest, 
Is  in  our  street  esteera'd  the  greatest ; 
But  latest  hours  must  surely  fall 
Before  him  who  never  dines  at  all. 

Your  taste  in  architect,  you  know, 
Has  been  admired  by  friend  and  foe  : 
But  can  you  earthly  domes  compare 
To  all  my  castles — in  the  air  ? 

We're  often  taught  it  doth  behove  us 
To  think  those  greater  who' re  above  us. 
Another  instance  of  my  glory. 
Who  live  above  you  twice  two  storey, 
And  from  my  garret  can  look  down 
On  the  whole  street  of  Arlington. 

Greatness  by  poets  still  is  painted. 
With  many  foUowers  acquainted  ; 
This  too  doth  in  my  favour  speak. 
Your  levee  is  but  twice  a  week  ; 
From  mine  I  can  exclude  but  one  day. 
My  door  is  quiet  on  a  Sunday. 

Nor  in  the  manner  of  attendance 
Doth  your  great  bard  claim  less  ascendance. 
Familiar  you  to  admiration. 
May  be  approach'd  by  all  the  nation  : 
W^hile  I,  like  the  Mogul  in  Indo, 
Am  never  seen  but  at  my  window. 
If  with  my  greatness  you're  offended, 
The  fault  is  easily  amended. 
For  I'll  come  down  with  wondrous  ease, 
Into  whatever  place  you  please. 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

I'm  not  ambitious  ;  little  matters 
Will  serve  us  great  but  humble  creatures. 
Suppose  a  secretary  of  this  isle. 
Just  to  be  doing  with  a  while  ; 
Admiral,  gen'ral,  judge,  or  bishop; 
Or  I  can  foreign  treaties  dish  up 
If  the  good  genius  of  the  nation 
Should  call  me  to  negotiation ; 
Tuscan  and  French  are  in  my  head  ; 
Latin  I  write,  and  Greek  I — read. 

If  you  should  ask,  what  pleases  best  ? 
To  get  the  most  and  do  the  least ; 
What  fittest  for  ? — you  know,  I'm  sure, 
I'm  fittest  for  a — sinecure. 

Henry  Fielding 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FAVOURITE  CAT 
DROWNED  IN  A  TUB  OF  GOLDFISHES 

'TwAS  on  a  lofty  vase's  side. 
Where  China's  gayest  art  had  dyed 

The  azure  flowers,  that  blow ; 
Demurest  of  the  tabby  kind, 
The  pensive  Selima  reclined. 

Gazed  on  the  lake  below. 

Her  conscious  tail  her  joy  declared  ; 
The  fair  round  face,  the  snowy  beard, 

The  velvet  of  her  paws. 
Her  coat,  that  with  the  tortoise  vies. 
Her  ears  of  jet  and  emerald  eyes, 

She  saw ;  and  purred  applause. 

45 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Still  had  she  gazed ;  but  'midst  the  tide 
Two  angel  forms  were  seen  to  glide. 

The  Genii  of  the  stream  ; 
Their  scaly  armour's  Tyrian  hue 
Through  richest  purple  to  the  view 

Betrayed  a  golden  gleam. 

The  hapless  nymph  with  wonder  saw ; 
A  whisker  first  and  then  a  claw. 

With  many  an  ardent  wish, 
She  stretched  in  vain  to  reach  the  prize. 
What  female  heart  can  gold  despise  ? 

What  cat's  averse  to  fish  ? 

Presumptuous  maid  !  with  looks  intent 
Again  she  stretched,  again  she  bent. 

Nor  knew  the  gulf  between. 
(Malignant  Fate  sat  by  and  smiled,) 
The  slippery  verge  her  feet  beguiled. 

She  tumbled  headlong  in. 

Eight  times  emerging  from  the  flood 
She  mewed  to  every  wat'ry  god, 

Some  speedy  aid  to  send. 
No  Dolphin  came,  no  Nereid  stirred ; 
Nor  cruel  Tom,  nor  Susan  heard. 

A  fav'rite  has  no  friend  ! 

From  hence,  ye  beauties,  undeceived, 
Know,  one  false  step  is  ne'er  retrieved. 

And  be  with  caution  bold. 
Not  all  that  tempts  your  wand'ring  eyes 
And  heedless  hearts,  is  lawful  prize ;  i 

Nor  all,  that  glisters,  gold. 

Thomas  Gray 


'^^mm 


OS    AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    ^^ 

Oa    HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^  

THE  VICAR  OF  BRAY 

In  good  King  Charles's  golden  days. 

When  loyalty  no  harm  meant, 
A  zealous  high-churchman  was  I, 

And  so  I  got  preferment. 
To  teach  my  Flock  I  never  miss'd 

Kings  were  by  God  appointed. 
And  lost  are  those  that  dare  resist 
Or  touch  the  Lord's  anointed. 
And  this  is  law  that  I'll  maintain 

Until  my  dying  day,  sir. 
That  whatsoever  king  shall  reign. 
Still  I'll  be  the  Vicar  of  Bray,  sir. 

When  Royal  James  possess'd  the  crown. 

And  Popery  grew  in  fashion 
The  penal  laws  I  hooted  down. 

And  read  the  Declaration : 
The  Church  of  Rome  I  found  would  fit 

Full  well  my  constitution ; 
And  I  had  been  a  Jesuit, 
But  for  the  Revolution. 

And  this  is  law  that  I'll  maintain 

Until  my  dying  day,  sir. 
That  whatsoever  king  shall  reign. 
Still  I'll  be  the  Vicar  of  Bray,  sir. 
When  William  was  our  king  declared. 

To  ease  the  nation's  grievance ; 
With  this  new  wind  about  I  steer'd, 

And  swore  to  him  allegiance. 
Old  principles  I  did  revoke. 

Set  conscience  at  a  distance ; 
Passive  obedience  was  a  joke, 
A  jest  was  non-resistance. 

And  this  is  law  that  I'll  maintain 

Until  my  dying  day,  sir. 
That  whatsoever  king  shall  reign. 
Still  I'll  be  the  Vicar  of  Bray,  sir. 


47 


^    AN  ANTHOLOGY    OF 
ESi    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

When  Royal  Anne  became  our  queen. 

The  Church  of  England's  glory, 
Another  face  of  things  was  seen. 

And  I  became  a  Tory  : 
Occasional  Conformists  base, 

I  blamed  their  moderation ; 
And  thought  the  Church  in  danger  was 
By  such  prevarication. 

And  this  is  law  that  I'll  maintain 

Until  my  dying  day,  sir, 
That  whatsoever  king  shall  reign. 
Still  I'll  be  the  Vicar  of  Bray,  sir. 

When  George  in  pudding  time  came  o'er. 

And  moderate  men  looked  big,  sir. 
My  principles  I  changed  once  more. 

And  so  became  a  Whig,  sir ; 
And  thus  preferment  I  procured 

From  our  new  faith's  defender; 
And  almost  every  day  abjured 
The  Pope  and  the  Pretender. 

And  this  is  law  that  I'll  maintain 

Until  my  dying  day,  sir. 
That  whatsoever  king  shall  reign. 
Still  I'll  be  the  Vicar  of  Bray,  sir. 

Th'  illustrious  House  of  Hanover, 

And  Protestant  succession. 
To  these  I  do  allegiance  swear — 

While  they  can  keep  possession  : 
For  in  my  faith  and  loyalty, 

I  never  more  will  falter. 
And  George  my  lawful  king  shall  be — 
Until  the  times  do  alter. 

And  this  is  law  that  I'll  maintain 

Until  my  dying  day,  sir. 
That  whatsoever  king  shall  reign, 
Still  I'll  be  the  Vicar  of  Bray,  sir. 

Anon. 
48 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


ELEGY  ON  MRS.  MARY  BLAIZE 

Good  people  all,  with  one  accord. 

Lament  for  Madam  Blaize_, 
Who  never  wanted  a  good  word — 

From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 

The  needy  seldom  passed  her  door. 
And  always  found  her  kind ; 

She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor — 
Who  left  a  pledge  behind. 

She  strove  the  neighbourhood  to  please, 
With  manners  wondrous  winning  ; 

And  never  followed  wicked  ways — 
Unless  when  she  was  sinning. 

At  church,  in  silks  and  satins  new. 
With  hoop  of  monstrous  size ; 

She  never  slumbered  in  her  pew — 
But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver. 
By  twenty  beaux  and  more ; 

The  king  himself  has  followed  her — 
When  she  has  walked  before. 

But  now  her  wealth  and  finery  fled. 
Her  hangers-on  cut  short  all; 

The  doctors  found,  when  she  was  dead — 
Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament,  in  sorrow  sore. 

For  Kent  Street  well  may  say 
That  had  she  lived  a  twelvemonth  more — 
f  She  had  not  died  to-day. 

Oliver  Goldsmith 


49 


AN    ANTHOLOGY    OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  GIFT 

TO    IRIS,    IN    BOW    STREET,    COVEXT    GARDEN 

Say,  cruel  Iris,  pretty  rake, 

Dear  mercenary  beauty, 
What  annual  offering  shall  I  make 

Expressive  of  my  duty  ? 

My  heart,  a  \ictim  to  thine  eyes. 

Should  I  at  once  deliver, 
Say,  would  the  angry  fair  one  prize 

The  gift,  who  slights  the  giver  ? 

A  bill,  a  jewel,  watch  or  toy. 
My  rivals  give — and  let  'em ; 

If  gems  or  gold  impart  a  joy, 
I'll  give  them — when  I  get  'em. 

I'll  give — but  not  the  full-blown  rose. 
Or  rose-bud,  more  in  fashion ; 

Such  short-lived  offerings  but  disclose 
A  transitory  passion. 

I'll  give  thee  something  yet  unpaid. 
Not  less  sincere  than  ci\'il ; 

1*11  give  thee — Ah  !  too  charming  maid, 
I'll  give  thee — to  the  de\-il. 

Oliver  Goldsmith 


.50 


\ 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song ; 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, — 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say. 
That  still  a  Godly  race  he  ran, — 

Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had. 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes ; 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, — 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found. 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends ; 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends. 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighbouring  streets 

The  wondering  neighbours  ran. 
And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits. 

To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seemed  both  sore  and  sad, 

To  every  Christian  eye  ; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light. 

That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied  ; 
The  man  recovered  of  the  bite. 
The  dog  it  was  that  died. 

Oliver  Goldsmith 

51 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON 

Thanks,  my  lord,  for  your  venison,  for  finer  or  fatter 
Never  ranged  in  a  forest,  or  smoked  in  a  platter ; 
The  haunch  was  a  picture  for  painters  to  study, 
The  fat  was  so  white,  and  the  lean  was  so  ruddy. 
Though  my  stomach  was  sharp,  I  could  scarce  help 

regretting, 
To  spoil  such  a  delicate  picture  by  eating ; 
I  had  thoughts,  in  my  chambers,  to  place  it  on  view. 
To  be  shown  to  my  friends  as  a  piece  of  virtu  ; 
As  in  some  Irish  houses,  where  things  are  so-so. 
One  gammon  of  bacon  hangs  up  for  a  show  : 
But  for  eating  a  rasher  of  what  they  take  pride  in. 
They'd  as  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  is  fried  in. 
But  hold — let  me  pause — Don't  I  hear  you  pronounce 
This  tale  of  the  bacon  a  damnable  bounce  ? 
Well,  suppose  it  a  bounce — sure  a  poet  may  try. 
By  a  bounce  now  and  then,  to  get  courage  to  fly. 
But,  my  lord,  it's  no  bounce :  I  protest  in  my  turn 
It's  a  truth — and  your  lordship  may  ask  Mr.  Byrne. 

To  go  on  with  my  tale — as  I  gazed  on  the  haunch, 

I  thought  of  a  friend  that  was  trusty  and  staunch. 

So  I  cut  it,  and  sent  it  to  Reynolds  undrest. 

To  paint  it,  or  eat  it,  just  as  he  liked  best. 

Of  the  neck  and  the  breast  I  had  next  to  dispose ; 

*Twas  a  neck  and  a  breast — that  might  rival  Munroe's  : 

But  in  parting  with  these  I  was  puzzled  again. 

With  the  how,  and  the  who,  and  the  where,  and  the  when. 

There's  Howard,  and  Coley,  and  H — rth,  and  Heff. 

I  think  they  love  venison — I  know  they  love  beef; 

There's  my  countryman  Higgins — Oh  !  let  him  alone. 

For  making  a  blunder,  or  picking  a  bone. 

But  hang  it — to  poets  who  seldom  can  eat. 

Your  very  good  mutton's  a  very  good  treat ; 

Such  dainties  to  them  their  health  it  might  hurt, 

It's  like  sending  them  ruffles,  when  wanting  a  shirt. 

5« 


^    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    f>7;;^    KSl    f^    RT^^ 
CSi    HUMOROUS    VERSE    eSs    ^    ISJ    HS 

While  thus  I  debated,  in  reverie  centred, 

An  acquaintance,  a  friend  as  he  called  himself,  entered ; 

An  underbred,  fine-spoken  fellow  was  he, 

And  he  smiled  as  he  looked  at  the  venison  and  me. 

"  What  have  we  got  here  ? — Why  this  is  good  eating  I 

Your  own,  I  suppose — or  is  it  in  waiting  ?" 

''Why,  whose  should  it  be ? "  cried  I  with  a  flounce : 

"  I  get  these  things  often  "  ; — but  that  was  a  bounce  • 

"  Some  lords,  my  acquaintance,  that  settle  the  nation. 

Are  pleased  to  be  kind — but  I  hate  ostentation." 

''If  that  be  the  case,  then,"  cried  he,  very  gay, 

"  I'm  glad  I  have  taken  this  house  on  my  way. 

To-morrow  you  take  a  poor  dinner  with  me; 

No  words — I  insist  on  't — precisely  at  three : 

We'll  have  Johnson  and  Burke ;  all  the  wits  will  be  there ; 

My  acquaintance  is  slight,  or  I'd  ask  my  Lord  Clare. 

And  now  that  I  think  on  't,  as  I  am  a  sinner ! 

We  wanted  this  venison  to  make  out  the  dinner. 

What  say  you — a  pasty  ?  it  shall,  and  it  must. 

And  my  wife,  little  Kitty,  is  famous  for  crust. 

Here,  porter  I — this  venison  with  me  to  Mile-end ; 

No  stewing — I  beg — my  dear  friend — my  deai  friend  ! " 

Thus  snatching  his  hat,  he  brushed  off  like  the  wind. 

And  the  porter  and  eatables  followed  behind. 

Left  alone  to  reflect,  having  emptied  my  shelf. 
And  "nobody  with  me  at  sea  but  myself" ; 
Though  I  could  not  help  thinking  my  gentleman  hasty. 
Yet  Johnson,  and  Burke,  and  a  good  venison  pasty. 
Were  things  that  I  never  disliked  in  my  life, 
Though  clogged  with  a  coxcomb,  and  Kitty  his  wife. 
So  next  day,  in  due  splendour  to  make  my  approach, 
I  drove  to  his  door  in  my  own  hackney  coach. 

When  come  to  the  place  where  we  all  were  to  dine, 
(A  chair-lumbered  closet  just  twelve  feet  by  nine) ; 
My  friend  bade  me  welcome,  but  struck  me  quite  dumb. 
With  tidings  that  Johnson  and  Burke  would  not  come ; 

53 


[TO    KH    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^ 
as    lSS    HUMOROUS   VERSE    C2i 

" ¥oT  I  knew  it/'  cried  he,  "both  eternally  fail. 
The  one  with  his  speeches,  t*  other  with  Thrale ; 
But  no  matter,  I'll  warrant  we  make  up  the  party, 
With  two  full  as  clever,  and  ten  times  as  hearty. 
The  one  is  a  Scotchman,  the  other  a  Jew, 
They're  both  of  them  merry,  and  authors  like  you ; 
The  one  writes  the  Snarler,  the  other  the  Scourge ; 
Some  thinks  he  writes  Cimna — he  owns  to  Panurge." 
While  thus  he  described  them  by  trade  and  by  name, 
They  entered,  and  dinner  was  served  as  they  came. 

At  the  top  a  fried  liver  and  bacon  were  seen. 

At  the  bottom  was  tripe  in  a  swinging  tureen ; 

At  the  sides  there  was  spinach  and  pudding  made  hot ; 

In  the  middle  a  place  where  the  pasty — was  not. 

Now,  my  lord,  as  for  tripe,  it's  my  utter  aversion, 

And  your  bacon  I  hate  like  a  Turk  or  a  Persian, 

So  there  I  sat  stuck,  like  a  horse  in  a  pound, 

While  the  bacon  and  liver  went  merrily  round : 

But  what  vexed  me  most  was  that  d — - — d  Scottish  rogue. 

With  his  long-winded  speeches,  his  smiles  and  his  brogue ; 

And,  "  Madam,"  quoth  he,  "  may  this  bit  be  my  poison, 

A  prettier  dinner  I  never  set  eyes  on ; 

Pray  a  slice  of  your  liver,  though  may  I  be  curst. 

But  I've  eat  of  your  tripe  till  I'm  ready  to  burst." 

"  The  tripe,"  quoth  the  Jew,  with  his  chocolate  cheek, 

"  I  could  dine  on  this  tripe  seven  days  in  the  week  : 

I  like  these  here  dinners  so  pretty  and  small ; 

But  your  friend  there,  the  Doctor,  eats  nothing  at  all." 

" O — Oh  !  "  quoth  my  friend,  "he'll  come  on  in  a  trice. 

He's  keeping  a  corner  for  something  that's  nice : 

There's  a  pasty  " — "  A  pasty  ! "  repeated  the  Jew, 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  keep  a  comer  for  't  too." 

"  What  the  de'il,  mon,  a  pasty  ! "  re-echoed  the  Scot, 

"  Though  splitting,  I'll  still  keep  a  corner  for  thot." 

"We'll  all  keep  a  corner,"  the  lady  cried  out ; 

"We'll  all  keep  a  corner,"  was  echoed  about. 

While  thus  we  resolved,  and  the  pasty  delayed. 

With  looks  that  quite  petrified,  entered  the  maid ; 

54 


^    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
t^    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

A  visage  so  sad,  and  so  pale  with  affright. 

Waked  Priam  in  drawing  his  curtains  by  night. 

But  we  quickly  found  out,  for  who  could  mistake  her  ? 

That  she  came  with  some  terrible  news  from  the  baker : 

And  so  it  fell  out,  for  that  negligent  sloven 

Had  shut  out  the  pasty  on  shutting  his  oven. 

Sad  Philomel  thus — but  let  similes  drop — 

And  now  that  I  think  on  't,  the  story  may  stop. 

To  be  plain,  my  good  lord,  it's  but  labour  misplaced, 

To  send  such  good  verses  to  one  of  your  taste ; 

You've  got  an  odd  something — a  kind  of  discerning — 

A  relish — a  taste — sickened  over  by  learning  : 

At  least,  it's  your  temper,  as  very  well  known. 

That  you  think  very  slightly  of  all  that's  your  own : 

So,  perhaps,  in  your  habits  of  thinking  amiss. 

You  may  make  a  mistake,  and  think  slightly  of  this. 

Oliver  Goldsmith 


REPORT  OF  AN  ADJUDGED  CASE 

Not  to  be  found  in  any  of  the  Books 

Between  Nose  and  Eyes  a  strange  contest  arose. 
The  spectacles  set  them  unhappily  wrong ; 

The  point  in  dispute  was,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
To  which  the  said  spectacles  ought  to  belong. 

So  Tongue  was  the  lawyer,  and  argued  the  cause 

With  a  great  deal  of  skill,  and  a  wig  full  of  learning ; 

While  Chief- Baron  Ear  sat  to  balance  the  laws, 
So  famed  for  his  talent  in  nicely  discerning. 

*'  In  behalf  of  the  Nose  it  will  quickly  appear 

And  your  lordship,"  he  said,  "  will  undoubtedly  find, 

That  the  Nose  has  had  spectacles  always  in  wear. 
Which  amounts  to  possession  time  out  of  mind." 

55 


^    [nI;^    !OT    K0    j^    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^ 
C^    ^    ^    ^    ^    HUMOROUS    VERSE    C^ 

Then  holding  the  spectacles  up  to  the  court — 

"  Your  lordship  observes  they  are  made  with  a  straddle^ 

As  wide  as  the  bridge  of  the  Nose  is ;  in  short, 
Design'd  to  sit  close  to  it,  just  like  a  saddle. 

"Again,  would  your  lordship  a  moment  suppose 
('Tis  a  case  that  has  happened,  and  may  be  again) 

That  the  visage  or  countenance  had  not  a  Nose, 

Pray  who  would,  or  who  could,  wear  spectacles  then  ? 

"  On  the  whole  it  appears,  and  my  argument  shows. 
With  a  reasoning  the  court  will  never  condemn. 

That  the  spectacles  plainly  were  made  for  the  Nose' 
And  the  Nose  was  as  plainly  intended  for  them." 

Then  shifting  his  side  (as  a  lawyer  knows  how), 

He  pleaded  again  in  behalf  of  the  Eyes  : 
But  what  were  his  arguments  few  people  know. 

For  the  court  did  not  think  they  were  equally  wise. 

So  his  lordship  decreed  Mith  a  grave  solemn  tone, 
Decisive  and  clear,  without  one  if  or  but — 

"  That,  whenever  the  Nose  put  his  spectacles  on. 
By  daylight  or  candlelight — Eyes  should  be  shut !  " 

William  Cowper 


56 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN 
GILPIN 

SHOWING  HOW  HE  WENT  FARTHER  THAN  HE 
INTENDED,   AND   CAME   SAFE   HOME   AGAIN 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown, 
A  train-band  captain  eke  was  he 

Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear — 

Though  wedded  we  have  been 
These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 

No  hoUday  have  seen. 

To-morrow  is  our  wedding  day. 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton 

All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 

My  sister,  and  my  sister's  child. 

Myself,  and  children  three, 
Will  fill  the  chaise ;  so  you  must  ride 

On  horseback  after  we. 

He  soon  replied — I  do  admire 

Of  womankind  but  one. 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear. 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

I  am  a  linen-draper  bold. 

As  all  the  world  doth  know, 
And  my  good  friend  the  calender 

Will  lend  his  horse  to  go. 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin — That's  well  said ; 

And,  for  that  wine  is  dear. 
We  will  be  furnished  with  our  own. 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear. 

57 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    ^ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    tS 

John  Gilpin  kiss'd  his  loving  wife ; 

O'erjoy'd  was  he  to  find 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought. 

But  yet  was  not  allow'd 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stay'd, 

Where  they  did  all  get  in  ; 
Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels. 

Were  never  folk  so  glad. 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse's  side 

Seiz'd  fast  the  flowing  mane. 
And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride. 

But  soon  came  down  again ; 

For  saddle-tree  scarce  reach'd  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 
WTien,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came  ;  for  loss  of  time. 

Although  it  griev'd  him  sore. 
Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 

W^ould  trouble  him  much  more. 

'Twas  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind, 
When  Betty  screaming  came  downstairs  — 

"  The  wine  is  left  behind  !  " 

Good  luck  !  quoth  he — yet  bring  it  me 

My  leathern  belt  likewise. 
In  which  I  bear  my  trusty  sword 

When  I  do  exercise. 

5a 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^S 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul !) 

Had  two  stone  bottles  found. 
To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  lov'd, 

And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear, 
Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 

And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side, 
To  make  his  balance  true. 

Then,  over  all,  that  he  might  be 

Equipped  from  top  to  toe, 
His  long  red  cloak,  well  brush'd  and  neat, 

He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 

Upon  his  nimble  steed. 
Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones 

With  caution  and  good  heed  ! 

But,  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 

Beneath  his  well-shod  feet. 
The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 

Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 

So,  Fair  and  softly,  John,  he  cried. 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain  ; 
That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon. 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

So,  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 

Who  cannot  sit  upright. 
He  grasp'd  the  mane  with  both  his  hands, 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 

Had  handled  been  before. 
What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 

Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  nought ; 

Away  went  hat  and  wig  ! — 
He  little  dreamt,  when  he  set  out. 

Of  running  such  a  rig  ! 


59 


60 


!^    K0    ra    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 

Eas  ^  IeSs  humorous  verse 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly. 

Like  streamer  long  and  gay, 
Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both, 

At  last  it  flew  away. 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 

The  bottles  he  had  slung  ; 
A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  scream'd, 

Up  flew  the  windows  all ; 
And  ev'ry  soul  cried  out — Well  done  ! 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin — who  but  he  ? 

His  fame  soon  spread  around — 
He  carries  weight !     He  rides  a  race  ! 

*Tis  for  a  thousand  pound ! 

And  still,  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 

'Twas  wonderful  to  view 
How  in  a  trice  the  turn-pike  men 

Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 

His  reeking  head  full  low. 
The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 

Were  shatter'd  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road, 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 
Which  made  his  horse's  flanks  to  smoke 

As  they  had  basted  been. 

But  still  he  seem'd  to  carry  weight. 

With  leathern  girdle  brac'd  ; 
For  all  might  see  the  bottle-necks 

Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 

These  gambols  he  did  play. 
And  till  he  came  unto  the  Wash 

Of  Edmonton  so  gay. 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    jSJ^    j^    fS^    fsJ;^ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^S    ESs    C^    ^^ 

And  there  he  threw  the  Wash  about 

On  both  sides  of  the  way. 
Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mob. 

Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wond'ring  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin  ! — Here's  the  house — 

They  all  at  once  did  cry  ; 
The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tir'd : 

Said  Gilpin — So  am  I ! 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclin'd  to  tarry  there  ; 
For  why  .'* — his  owner  had  a  house 

Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong ; 
So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  out  of  breath, 

And  sore  against  his  will. 
Till  at  his  friend  the  calender's 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  calender,  amaz'd  to  see 

His  neighbour  in  such  trim. 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate. 

And  thus  accosted  him ; — 

What  news  !  what  news  !  your  tidings  tell ; 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall — 
Say  why  bare-headed  you  are  come. 

Or  why  you  come  at  all. 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit. 

And  lov'd  a  timely  joke  ; 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke  : — 

61 


!^    ra    C>^    Kn    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
as    ES    as    ESS    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

I  came  because  your  horse  would  come ; 

And,  if  I  well  forbode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here — 

They  are  upon  the  road. 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Return'd  him  not  a  single  word. 

But  to  the  house  went  in ; 

Whence  strait  he  came  with  hat  and  wig ; 

A  wig  that  flow'd  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear, 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and,  in  his  turn, 

Thus  show'd  his  ready  wit — 
My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 

That  hangs  upon  your  face ; 
And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 

Be  in  a  hungry  case. 

Said  John — It  is  my  wedding-day. 

And  all  the  world  would  stare 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton 

And  I  should  dine  at  Ware  ! 

So,  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said  — 

I  am  in  haste  to  dine  ; 
'Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here. 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine. 

Ah,  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast ! 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear ; 
For,  while  he  spake,  a  braying  ass 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear  ; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar. 
And  gallop'd  off  with  all  his  might. 

As  he  had  done  before. 


62 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    |SJ7 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    HS 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig ! 

He  left  them  sooner  than  at  first — 
For  why  ? — they  were  too  big  ! 

Now,  mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 

Her  husband  posting  down 
Into  the  country  far  away, 

She  puU'd  out  half  a  crown ; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said 
That  drove  them  to  the  Bell — 

This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring  back 
My  husband  safe  and  well. 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coming  back  amain ; 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop. 

By  catching  at  his  rein  ; 

But,  not  performing  what  he  meant, 
And  gladly  would  have  done, 

The  frighted  horse  he  frighted  more, 
And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  post-boy  at  his  heels  ! — 

The  post-boy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 
The  lumb'ring  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road. 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
With  post-boy  scamp' ring  in  the  rear. 

They  rais'd  the  hue  and  cry  : — 

Stop  thief !  stop  thief ! — a  highwayman  ! 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute ; 
And  all  and  each  that  pass'd  that  way 

Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space  ; 
The  toll-man  thinking,  as  before. 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 


63 


^    ^Xn    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
as    IeSS    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

And  so  he  did — and  won  it  too  I — 

For  he  got  first  to  town  ; 
Nor  stopp'd  till  where  he  had  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing — Long  live  the  king, 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he  ; 
And,  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 

May  I  be  there  to  see  I 

William  Cowper 


THE  APPLE-DUMPLINGS 
AND  A  KING 

Once  on  a  time,  a  Monarch,  tired  with  whooping, 
Whipping  and  spurring, 
Happy  in  worrying 
A  poor,  defenceless,  harmless  Buck 
(The  Horse  and  Rider  wet  as  muck). 
From  his  high  consequence  and  wisdom  stooping, 
Enter'd,  through  curiosity,  a  cot 
Where  sat  a  poor  Old  Woman  and  her  pot. 

The  wrinkled,  blear-eyed,  good  old  Granny, 
In  this  same  cot,  illumed  by  many  a  cranny. 
Had  finish' d  Apple-dumplings  for  her  pot 
In  tempting  row  the  naked  Dumplings  lay. 
When,  lo  !  the  Monarch,  in  his  2is?ial  way. 
Like  Lightning  spoke  :  "What's  this  ?  what's  this  ?  what  ? 
what  ?  " 

Then,  taking  up  a  Dumplmg  in  his  hand. 
His  eyes  with  admiration  did  expand. 

And  oft  did  Majesty  the  Dumpling  grapple  : 
"'Tis  monstrous,  monstrous  hard  indeed,"  he  cried: 
''  What  makes  it,  pray,  so  hard  ? " — The  Dame  replied. 

Low  curtseying,  '^  Please  your  Majesty,  the  Apple." — 
64 


raq    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^^ 
CSa    HUMOROUS    VERSE    HS 

*'  Very  astonishing  indeed  !  strange  thing ! ' ' 
(Turning  the  Dumpling  round,  rejoined  the  King). 

'*'Tis  most  extraordinary  then,  all  this  is; 

It  beats  Pinetti's  conjuring  all  to  pieces: 
Strange  I  should  never  of  a  Dumpling  dream  ! 
But,  Goody,  tell  me  where,  where,  where's  the  Seam  ?  "- 

"  Sir,  there's  no  Seam,"  quoth  she  ;  '^  I  never  knew 
That  folks  did  Apple-dumplings  setv." — 
"No  !"  cried  the  staring  Monarch  with  a  grin : 
"  How,  how  the  devil  got  the  Apple  in  ? " 

On  which  the  Dame  the  curious  scheme  revealed 
By  which  the  Apple  lay  so  sly  concealed ; 

Which  made  the  Solomon  of  Britain  start : 
Who  to  the  Palace  with  full  speed  repaired. 
And  Queen  and  Princesses  so  beauteous  scared. 

All  with  the  wonders  of  the  Dumpling  Art. 

There  did  he  labour  one  whole  week,  to  show 
The  wisdom  of  an  Apple-dumpling  Maker ; 

And,  lo  !  so  deep  was  Majesty  in  dough. 
The  Palace  seemed  the  lodging  of  a  Baker. 

John  Wolcot  ("  Peter  Pindar  ") 


THE  RAZOR-SELLER 

A  Fellow  in  a  market-town. 

Most  musical,  cried  Razors  up  and  down, 

And  offer'd  twelve  for  eigkteen-pence  : 
Which  certainly  seem'd  wondrous  cheap. 
And  for  the  money  quite  a  heap. 

As  every  man  would  buy,  with  cash  and  sense. 

A  country  Bumpkin  the  great  offer  heard  ; 

Poor  Hodge,  who  sufFer'd  by  a  broad  black  Beard, 

E  65 


ST^    KJ1    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    03 

as  eSb  humorous  verse  tSU 

That  seera'd  a  Shoe-brush  stuck  beneath  his  nose : 
With  cheerfulness  the  eigh teen-pence  he  paid, 
And  proudly  to  himself,  in  whispers,  said, 

''  This  rascal  stole  the  Razors^  I  suppose. 

"No  matter  if  the  fellow  be  a  knave. 
Provided  that  the  Razors  shave : 

It  sariinly  will  be  a  monstrous  prize." 
So  home  the  Qown,  with  his  good  fortune,  <vent 
Smiling,  in  heart  and  soul,  content, 

And  quickly  soap'd  himself  to  ears  and  eyes. 

Being  well  lather'd  from  a  dish  or  tub, 
Hodge  now  began  with  grinning  pain  to  grub, 

Just  like  a  Hedger  cutting  Furze  : 
'Twas  a  vile  Razor ! — Then  the  rest  he  tried — 
All  were  impostors.     "Ah  I  "  Hodge  sigh'd, 

"  I  wish  my  eight een-pefice  within  my  purse." 

In  vain  to  chase  his  Beard,  and  bring  the  Graces, 

He  cut,  and  dug,  and  winc'd,  and  stamp'd,  and  swore. 

Brought   blood,  and  danc'd,  blasphem'd,  and   made  wry 
faces. 
And  curs' d  each  Razor's  body  o'er  and  o'er : 

His  Muzzle,  form'd  of  Opposition  stuff. 
Firm  as  a  Foxite,  would  not  loose  its  Ruff: 

So  kept  it,  laughing  at  the  Steel  and  Suds : 
Hodge,  in  a  passion,  stretch'd  his  angry  jaws. 
Vowing  the  direst  vengeance,  with  clench'd  claws, 

On  the  vile  Cheat  that  sold  the  goods. 
"  Razors  !  a  damn'd  confounded  dog. 
Not  fit  to  scrape  a  Hog  ! " 

Hodge  sought  the  fellow,  found  him,  and  begun : 
"  P'rhaps,  Master  Razor-rogue,  to  you  'tis  fun 

That  people  flay  themselves  out  of  their  lives : 
You  rascal  I  for  an  hour  have  I  been  grubbing, 
Giving  my  scoundrel  Whiskers  here  a  scrubbing, 

W^ith  Razors  just  like  Oyster-knives. 
Sirrah  I  I  tell  you,  you're  a  knave. 
To  cry  up  Razors  that  can't  shave." 
66 


I 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

"  Friend,"  quoth  the  Razor-man,  "  I  am  no  knave : 

As  for  the  Razors  you  have  bought. 

Upon  my  soul  I  never  thought 
That  they  would  shave." 

"  Not  think  they'd  shave !  "  quoth  Hodge^  with  wondering 
eyes, 
And  voice  not  much  unlike  an  Indian  yell ; 
"  What  were  they  made  for  then,  you  dog  ?  "  he  cries. 
"  Made  !  "  quoth  the  Fellow  with  a  smile — ''  to  selV^ 
John  Wolcot  {^^  Peter  Pindar  ") 


*•'*  Z^Krr^^^Vi 


THE  RIVAL  TRADESMEN 

A  THIEVING  fellow,  naturally  sly, 

"  Cheaper  than  all  the  world,"  his  wares  would  cry. 

And  on  a  jackass'  back  such  bargains  brought  'em  ; 
All  sized  and  sorted  town-made  brooms, 
For  sweeping  stables,  gardens,  hearths,  or  rooms. 

So  cheap  !  as  quite  astonisk'd  all  who  bought  'em  ! 

Thus,  for  a  while,  he  drove  a  roaring  trade. 

And  wisely  thought  a  pretty  purse  to  have  made. 
When  on  a  dismal  day,  at  every  door. 
Where  oft  he'd  sold  his  dog-cheap  goods  before. 
With  freezing  looks,  his  customers  all  told  him. 

Another  broom-monger  they'd  found 

That  travell'd  far  and  wide  the  country  round. 
And  in  sorts  and  sizes,  under-sold  him. 

Scratching  his  wig  he  left  'em,  musing  deep. 
With  knitted  brows — up  to  his  ears  in  thought. 
To  guess,  where  in  the  deuce  brooms  could  be  bought, 

That  any  mortal  man  could  sell  so  cheap. 

67 


^    K?1    AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 

aa  ^   HUMOROUS  verse 

When  lo !  as  through  the  street  he  slowly  passes, 

A  voice  as  clear  as  raven's,  owl's,  or  ass's, 

And  just  as  musical,  rung  in  his  ears,  like  thunder 

(Half  splitting  his  thick  head,  and  wig  cramm'd  full   of 

wonder), 
With  roaring  out,  "  Cheap  brooms  ! "     O'erjoy'd  he  meets 
His  brother  brush,  and  thus  the  rascal  greets  : — 
"  How,  how  the  devil,  brother-rogue,  do  I 
Hear  my  old  friends  sing  out  a  general  cry 
That  I'm  a  knave  I  then  growl  like  bears,  and  tell  me. 
That  you  do  more 

Than  all  the  world  could  ever  do  before. 
And,  in  this  self-same  broom-trade  undersell  me. 
I  always  thought  /sold  them  cheap  enough, 
And  well  I  might — for  why  ? 
('Twixt  you  and  I,) 
I  own,  I  now  and  then  have  stole  the  stuff!  " 
'*  Ah  ! "  (quoth  his  brother  thief,  a  dog  far  deeper,) 

''I  see,  my  boy,  you  haven't  half  learnt  your  trade, 
I  go  a  cheaper  way  to  work  than  that."     "  A  cheaper  ?  " 
"  Why,  ah — I  always  steals  mine  ready  viade  !  " 

John  Wolcot  {''  Peter  Pindar  ") 


KING  CANUTE  AND  HIS  NOBLES 

A    TALE 

Canute  was  by  his  Nobles  taught  to  fancy. 
That,  by  a  kind  of  Royal  necromancy. 

He  had  the  power  Old  Ocean  to  control. 
Down  rush'd  the  Royal  Dane  upon  the  strand, 
And  issued,  like  a  Solomon,  command — 
Poor  soul ! 

"Go  back,  ye  Waves,  you  blustering  rogues,"  quoth  he; 

"  Touch  not  your  Lord  and  Master,  Sea ; 

68 


^    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
CSi    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

For,  by  my  power  almighty^  if  you  do — " 
Then  staring  vengeance,  out  he  held  a  stick ; 
Vowing  to  drive  Old  Ocean  to  Old  Nick, 

Should  he  even  wet  the  latchet  of  his  shoe. 

The  Sea  retired  :  the  Monarch  fierce  rush'd  on, 
An(J  look'd  as  if  he'd  drive  him  from  the  land  : 

But  Sea,  not  caring  to  be  put  upon. 
Made  for  a  moment  a  bold  stand. 

Not  only  make  a  stand,  did  Mister  Ocean, 
But  to  his  honest  Waves  he  made  a  motion. 

And  bid  them  give  the  King  a  hearty  trimming : 
The  orders  seem'd  a  deal  the  Waves  to  tickle ; 
For  soon  they  put  his  Majesty  in  pickle  ; 

And  set  his  Royalties,  like  Geese,  a-swimming. 
All  hands  aloft,  with  one  tremendous  roar. 
Soon  did  they  make  him  wish  himself  on  shore  : 

His  head  and  ears  most  handsomely  they  doused ; 
Just  like  a  Porpus,  with  one  general  shout 
The  Waves  so  tumbled  the  poor  King  about. 

No  Anabaptist  e'er  was  half  so  soused. 

At  length  to  land  he  crawled,  a  half-drowned  thing. 
Indeed  more  like  a  Crab  than  like  a  King, 

And  found  his  courtiers  making  rueful  faces ; — 
But  what  said  Canute  to  the  Lords  and  Gentry, 
Who  hail'd  him  from  the  water,  on  his  entry. 

All  trembling  for  their  lives  or  places  } 

"  My  Lords  and  Gentlemen,  by  your  advice, 

I've  had  with  Mister  Sea  a  pretty  bustle ; 
My  treatment  from  my  foe  not  over-nice, 

Just  made  a  jest  for  every  Shrimp  and  Mussel ; 
"  A  pretty  trick  for  one  of  my  dominion  ! — 
My  Lords,  I  thank  you  for  your  great  opinion. 
"  You'll  tell  me  perhaps,  I've  only  lost  one  Game, 

And  bid  me  try  another  for  the  Rubber  : 
Permit  me  to  inform  you  all  with  shame. 

That  you're  a  set  of  Knaves,  and  I'm  a  Lubber." 

John  Wolcot  (*'  Peter  Pindar  ") 

69 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  PILGRIMS  AND  THE  PEAS 

A    TRUE    STORY 

A  BRACE  of  Sinners,  for  no  good. 

Were  order'd  to  the  Virgin  Mary's  shrine. 

Who  at  Loretto  dwelt,  in  Wax,  Stone,  Wood, 
And  in  a  fair  white  Wig  look'd  wondrous  fine. 

Fifty  long  miles  had  those  sad  Rogues  to  travel, 
With  something  in  their  shoes  much  worse  than  gravel 
In  short,  their  toes  so  gentle  to  amuse. 
The  Priest  had  order'd  peas  into  their  shoes  ; 

A  nostrum  famous  in  old  Popish  times. 
For  purifying  Souls  that  stunk  of  crimes ; 

A  sort  of  Apostolic  salt, 

Which  Popish  parsons  for  its  powers  exalt. 
For  keeping  Souls  of  Sinners  sweet, 
Just  as  our  Kitchen-salt  keeps  Meat. 

The  Knaves  set  off  on  the  same  day, 
Peas  in  their  shoes,  to  go  and  pray ; 

But  very  different  was  their  speed,  I  wot : 
One  of  the  Sinners  gallop'd  on. 
Swift  as  a  Bullet  from  a  gun ; 

The  other  limp'd  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 

One  saw  the  Virgin  soon ;  peccavi  cried ; 

Had  his  Soul  white-wash'd  all  so  clever ; 
Then  home  again  he  nimbly  hied, 

Made  fit  with  Saints  above  to  live  for  ever. 

In  coming  back,  however,  let  me  say, 

He  met  his  Brother-rogue  about  half-way. 

Hobbling,  with  .  .  .  bended  knees, 

Damjiing  the  souls  and  bodies  of  the  peas  ; 

His  eyes  in  tears,  his  cheeks  and  brows  in  sweat, 

Deep  sympathising  with  his  groaning  feet. 

70 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    RP^    ^3    ^    K3 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    tM    ^SA    t^    13^ 

"  How  now/'  the  light-toed,  white-wash'd  Pilgrim  broke, 

"  You  lazy  lubber  ?  " — 
"  Ods  curse  it,"  cried  the  other,  "  'tis  no  joke  : 
My  Feet,  once  hard  as  any  Rock, 
Are  now  as  soft  as  Blubber. 

"  Excuse  me.  Virgin  Mary,  that  I  swear : 
As  for  Loretto,  I  shall  not  get  there ; 
No,  to  the  Devil  my  sinful  soul  must  go. 
For  damme  if  I  ha'nt  lost  every  toe. 

"  But,  Brother-sinner,  pray  explain 
How  'tis  that  you  are  not  in  pain ; 

What  Power  hath  work'd  a  wonder  for  your  toes  ; 
Whilst  /just  like  a  Snail  am  crawHng, 
Now  swearing,  now  on  Saints  devoutly  bawling. 

While  not  a  rascal  comes  to  ease  my  woes  ? 

"  How  is't  that  you  can  like  a  Greyhound  go. 
Merry  as  if  that  nought  had  happen'd,  burn  ye  ?" — 
"Why,"  cried  the  other  grinning,  '^you  must  know, 
That  just  before  I  ventured  on  my  journey. 

To  walk  a  little  more  at  ease, 

I  took  the  liberty  to  boil  my  Peas." 

John  Wolcot  ("  Peter  Pindar  ") 


71 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  REVIEWERS 

The  following  address  to  the  "  Reviewers  "  ivas  written 
for  a  poetical  Friend  who  had  suffered  6y  their  Severity. 

'Ti8  hard.  Messieurs  Reviewers,  'pon  my  soul, 
You  thus  should  lord  it  o'er  the  world  of  Wit : 

No  higher  court  your  sentence  to  control, 
You  hang,  or  you  reprieve,  as  you  think  fit. 

Whether,  in  calf,  your  labours  of  the  year 
Rank  with  immortal  Bards,  or  boxes  line ; 

Or,  torn  for  secret  services,  oh  dear ! 
Are  offer'd  up  at  Cloacina's  shrine  : — 

Whether  you  look  all  rosy  round  the  gills. 
Or  hatchet-fac'd  like  starving  Cats  so  lean ; 

Whether  your  Criticism  each  pocket  fills 

With  halfpence,  keeping  you  close-shav'd  and  clean  : — 

Whether  in  gorgeous  raiment  you  appear. 

Or  tatters  ready  from  your  backs  to  fall ;        * 

Whether  with  pompous  wigs  to  guard  each  ear. 
Or  whether  you've  no  wigs  or  ears  at  all : — 

Whether  you  look  like  Gentlemen  or  Thieves, 

I  hate  usurpers  of  the  critic  throne ; 
Therefore  his  compliments  the  Poet  gives. 

And  humbly  hopes  you'll  let  bis  Lines  alone. 

Stay  till  he  asks  your  thoughts,  ye  forward  Sages ; 

Officiousness  the  modest  Bard  abjures  : 
'Tis  surely  pert  to  meddle  >vith  hi^  pages. 

Who  never  deign'd  to  look  in  one  oi yours. 

John  Wolcot  (^^  Peter  Pindar  ") 


72 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


THE  CONTRAST 


In  London  I  never  know  what  I'd  be  at^ 
Enraptured  with  this,  and  enchanted  with  that ; 
I'm  wild  with  the  sweets  of  Variety's  plan. 
And  life  seems  a  blessing  too  happy  for  man. 

But  the  Country,  God  help  me  !  sets  all  matters  right. 
So  calm  and  composing  from  morning  till  night ; 
Oh  !  it  settles  the  spirits  when  nothing  is  seen 
But  an  ass  on  a  common,  a  goose  on  a  green. 

In  town  if  it  rain,  why  it  damps  not  our  hope. 
The  eye  has  her  choice,  and  the  fancy  her  scope ; 
What  harm  though  it  pour  whole  nights  or  whole  days  ? 
It  spoils  not  our  prospects,  or  stops  not  our  ways. 

In  the  country  what  bliss,  when  it  rains  in  the  fields. 
To  live  on  the  transports  that  shuttlecock  yields ; 
Or  go  crawling  from  window  to  window,  to  see 
A  pig  on  a  dunghill  or  crow  on  a  tree. 

In  London,  if  folks  ill  together  are  put, 
A  bore  may  be  dropp'd  or  a  quiz  may  be  cut : 
We  change  without  end ;  and  if  lazy  or  ill 
All  wants  are  at  hand,  and  all  wishes  at  will. 

In  the  country  you're  nail'd  like  a  pale  in  the  park. 
To  some  stick  of  a  neighbour  that's  cramm'd  in  the  ark ; 
And  'tis  odds,  if  you're  hurt,  or  in  fits  tumble  down. 
You  reach  death  ere  the  doctor  can  reach  you  from  town. 

In  London  how  easy  we  visit  and  meet. 
Gay  pleasure's  our  theme,  and  sweet  smiles  are  our  treat ; 
Our  morning's  a  round  of  good-humour'd  delight. 
And  we  rattle,  in  comfort,  to  pleasure  at  night. 

In  the  country,  how  sprightly  !  our  visits  we  make 
Through  ten  miles  of  mud,  for  Formality's  sake ; 
With  the  coachman  in  drink,  and  the  moon  in  a  fog. 
And  no  thought  in  your  head  but  a  ditch  or  a  bog. 

73 


^    K0    K3    f^    KJl    AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 

csa  ^1^  ESi  Ha  eSi  humorous  verse 

In  London  the  spirits  are  cheerful  and  light. 
All  places  are  gay  and  all  faces  are  bright ; 
We've  ever  new  joys,  and  reviv'd  by  each  whim, 
Each  day  on  a  fresh  tide  of  pleasure  we  swim. 

But  how  gay  in  the  country !  what  summer  delight 
To  be  waiting  for  winter  from  morning  to  night ! 
Then  the  fret  of  impatience  gives  exquisite  glee 
To  relish  the  sweet  rural  objects  we  see. 

In  town  we've  no  use  for  the  skies  overhead. 
For  when  the  sun  rises  then  we  go  to  bed ; 
And  as  to  that  old-fashioned  virgin  the  moon, 
She  shines  out  of  season,  like  satin  in  June. 

In  the  country  these  planets  delightfully  glare. 
Just  to  show  the  object  we  want  isn't  there  : 
Oh,  how  cheery  and  gay,  when  their  beauties  arise. 
To  sit  and  gaze  round  with  the  tears  in  one's  eyes  ! 

But  'tis  in  the  country  alone  we  can  find 
That  happy  resource,  that  relief  to  the  mind 
When,  drove  to  despair,  our  last  effort  we  make. 
And  drag  the  old  fish-pond  for  Novelty's  sake : 

Indeed  I  must  own,  'tis  a  pleasure  complete 

To  see  ladies  well  draggled  and  wet  in  their  feet ; 

But  what  is  all  that  to  the  transport  we  feel 

When  we  capture,  in  triumph,  two  toads  and  an  eel } 

I  have  heard,  though,  that  love  in  a  cottage  is  sweet. 
When  two  hearts  in  one  link  of  sweet  sympathy  meet 
That's  to  come — for  as  yet  I,  alas !  am  a  swain 
Who  require,  I  own  it,  more  links  to  my  chain. 

Your  magpies  and  stock-doves  may  flirt  among  trees. 
And  chatter  their  transports  in  groves,  if  they  please ; 
But  a  house  is  much  more  to  my  taste  than  a  tree. 
And  for  groves,  oh  !  a  good  grove  of  chimneys  for  me. 

74 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

In  the  country  if  Cupid  should  find  a  man  out. 
The  poor  tortured  victim  mopes  hopeless  about ; 
But  in  London,  thank  Heaven  !  our  peace  is  secure, 
Where  for  one  eye  to  kill,  there's  a  thousand  to  cure. 

I  know  Love's  a  devil,  too  subtle  to  spy. 
That  shoots  through  the  soul,  from  the  beam  of  an  eye ; 
But  in  London  these  devils  so  quickly  fly  about 
That  a  new  devil  soon  drives  an  old  devil  out. 

In  town  let  me  live,  then,  in  town  let  me  die ; 
For  in  truth  I  can't  relish  the  country,  not  I. 
If  one  must  have  a  villa  in  summer  to  dwell, 
Oh,  give  me  the  sweet  shady  side  of  Pall  Mall. 

Charles  Morris 


THE  CATALOGUE 

Oh  !  that's  what  you  mean  now — a  bit  of  a  song ; 
Why,  faith,  then,  here  goes,  you  shan't  bother  me  long ; 
I  require  no  teazing,  no  praying,  or  stuff; 
By  my  soul,  if  you  wish  it,  I'm  ready  enough. 
To  give  you  your  end  you  shall  have  a  beginning  ; 

And,  trgth,  though  the  music  be  not  very  fine. 
It's  a  bit  of  a  thing  that  a  body  may  sing. 

Just  to  set  us  a-going  and  season  our  wine. 

Oh  !  I  oace  was  a  lover,  like  some  of  you  here. 
And  could  feed  a  whole  night  on  a  sigh  or  a  tear 
No  sunshine  1  knew  but  from  Kitty's  black  eye. 
And  the  world  was  a  desert  when  she  wasn't  by ; 
But,  the  devil  knows  how,  I  got  fond  of  Miss  Betty, 

And  Kitty  slipt  out  of  this  bosom  of  mine — 
It's  a  bit  of  a  thing  that  a  body  may  sing. 

Just  to  set  us  a-going,  and  season  our  wine. 

Now  Betty  had  eyes  soft  and  blue  as  the  sky, 
And  the  lily  was  black  when  her  bosom  was  by  ? 
Oh  !  I  found  I  was  fix'd,  and  for  ever  her  own. 
Sure  I  was,  soul  and  body  were  Betty's  alone  ; 


75 


^    AN    ANTHOLOGY    OF 

caa  HUMOROUS  verse 

But  a  sudden  red  shot  from  the  golden-hair'd  Lucy 
Burnt  Betty  quite  out,  with  a  flame  more  divine — 

It's  a  bit  of  a  thing  that  a  body  may  sing 
Just  to  set  us  a-going,  and  season  our  wine. 

Now  Lucy  was  stately,  majestic  and  tall. 

And  in  feature  and  shape  what  a  goddess  you'd  call : 

I  adored,  and  I  vow'd  if  she'd  not  a  kind  eye 

I'd  give  up  the  whole  world,  and  in  banishment  die ; 

But  Nancy  came  by,  a  round,  plump,  little  creature, 

And  fix'd  in  my  heart  quite  another  design — 
It's  a  bit  of  a  thing  that  a  body  may  sing, 

Just  to  set  us  a-going,  and  season  our  wine. 

Little  Nance,  like  a  Hebe,  was  buxom  and  gay. 
Had  a  bloom  like  a  rose,  and  was  fresher  than  May : 
Oh  !  I  felt  if  she  frown'd  I  must  die  by  a  rope. 
Or  my  bosom  would  burst  if  she  slighted  my  hope ; 
But  the  slim,  taper,  elegant  Fanny  look'd  at  me. 

And  troth,  I  no  longer  for  Nance  could  pine — 
It's  a  bit  of  a  thing  that  a  body  may  sing, 

Just  to  set  us  a-going,  and  season  our  wine. 

Now  Fanny's  light  frame  was  so  slender  and  fine 
That  she  skimm'd  in  the  air  like  a  shadow  divine. 
Her  motion  bewitch'd,  and  to  my  loving  eye 
'Twas  an  angel  soft  gliding  'twixt  earth  and  the  sky  : 
'Twas  all  mighty  well  till  I  saw  her  fat  sister. 

And  that  gave  a  turn  I  could  never  define — 
It's  a  bit  of  a  thing  that  a  body  may  sing. 

Just  to  set  us  a-going,  and  season  our  wine. 

Oh !  so  I  go  on,  ever  constantly  blest, 
For  I  find  I've  a  great  store  of  love  in  my  breast ; 
And  it  never  grows  less — for  whenever  I  try 
To  get  one  in  my  heart,  I  get  two  in  my  eye. 
To  all  sorts  of  beauty  I  bow  with  devotion. 

And  all  kind  of  liquor  by  turns  I  make  mine  ; 
So  I'll  finish  the  thing  that  another  may  sing, 

Just  to  keep  us  a-going,  and  season  our  wine. 

Charles  Morris 

76 


AN   ANTHOLOGY    OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN 

A    BALLAD 


There  were  three  kings  into  the  east. 

Three  kings  both  great  and  high ; 
An'  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath 

John  Barleycorn  should  die. 

They  took  a  plough  and  plough' d  him  down. 

Put  clods  upon  his  head  ; 
And  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath 

John  Barleycorn  was  dead. 

But  the  cheerful  spring  came  kindly  on 

And  show'rs  began  to  fall ; 
John  Barleycorn  got  up  again. 

And  sore  surpris'd  them  all. 

The  sultry  suns  of  summer  came. 

And  he  grew  thick  and  strong  ; 
His  head  well  arm'd  wi'  pointed  spears, 

That  no  one  should  him  wrong. 

The  sober  autumn  enter'd  mild. 

When  he  grew  wan  and  pale ; 
His  bending  joints  and  drooping  head 

Show'd  he  began  to  fail. 
His  colour  sicken'd  more  and  more. 

He  faded  into  age  ; 
And  then  his  enemies  began 

To  shew  their  deadly  rage. 
They've  ta'en  a  weapon,  long  and  sharp, 

And  cut  him  by  the  knee  ; 
Then  tied  him  fast  upon  a  cart. 

Like  a  rogue  for  forgerie. 
They  laid  him  down  upon  his  back. 

And  cudgell'd  him  full  sore  ; 
They  hung  him  up  before  the  storm, 

And  turn'd  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

77 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

They  filled  up  a  darksome  pit 

With  water  to  the  brim  ; 
They  heaved  in  John  Barleycorn, 

There  let  him  sink  or  swim. 

They  laid  him  out  upon  the  floor, 

To  work  him  further  woe  : 
And  stillj  as  signs  of  life  appear' d^ 

They  toss'd  him  to  and  fro. 

They  wasted  o'er  a  scorching  flame 

The  marrow  of  his  bones ; 
But  a  miller  us'd  him  worst  of  all — 

He  crush'd  him  'tween  two  stones. 

And  they  hae  ta'en  his  very  heart's  blood. 

And  drank  it  round  and  round  ; 
And  still  the  more  and  more  they  drank. 

Their  joy  did  more  abound. 

John  Barleycorn  was  a  hero  bold. 

Of  noble  enterprise ; 
For  if  you  do  but  taste  his  blood, 

'Twill  make  your  courage  rise. 

'Twill  make  a  man  forget  his  woe  ; 

'Twill  heighten  all  his  joy  : 
'Twill  make  the  widow's  heart  to  sing, 

Tho'  the  tear  were  in  her  eye. 

Then  let  us  toast  John  Barleycorn, 

Each  man  a  glass  in  hand  ; 
And  may  his  great  posterity 

Ne'er  fail  in  old  Scotland  ! 

Robert  Burns 


T8 


AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


THE  RONALDS  OF  THE  BENNALS 

In  Tarbolton,  ye  ken,  there  are  proper  young  men. 
And  proper  young  lasses  and  a',  man ; 

But  ken  ye  the  Ronalds  that  live  in  the  Bennals  ? 
They  carry  the  gree  frae  them  a',  man. 

Their  father's  a  laird,  and  weel  he  can  spare  't, 
Braid  money  to  tocher  them  a',  man, 

To  proper  young  men,  he'll  clink  in  the  hand 
Gowd  guineas  a  hunder  or  twa,  man. 

There's  ane  they  ca'  Jean,  I'll  warrant  ye've  seen 

As  bonny  a  lass  or  as  braw,  man  ; 
But  for  sense  and  guid  taste  she'll  vie  wi'  the  best. 

And  a  conduct  that  beautifies  a',  man. 

The  charms  o'  the  min*,  the  langer  they  shine. 
The  mair  admiration  they  draw,  man ; 

While  peaches  and  cherries,  and  roses  and  lilies. 
They  fade  and  they  wither  awa',  man. 

If  ye  be  for  Miss  Jean,  tak'  this  frae  a  frien', 

A  hint  o'  a  rival  or  twa,  man. 
The  Laird  o'  Blacklyre  wad  gang  through  the  fire. 

If  that  wad  entice  her  awa',  man. 

The  Laird  o'  Braehead  has  been  on  his  speed. 
For  mair  than  a  towmond  or  twa,  man ; 

The  Laird  o'  the  Ford  will  straught  on  a  board. 
If  he  canna'  get  at  her  at  a',  man. 

Then  Anna  comes  in,  the  pride  o'  her  kin. 

The  boast  of  our  bachelors  a',  man, 
Sae  sonsy  and  sweet,  sae  fully  complete, 

She  steals  our  affections  awa',  man. 

If  I  should  detail  the  pick  and  the  wale 

O'  lasses  that  live  here  awa,'  man, 
The  fault  wad  be  mine  if  they  didna  shine 

The  sweetest  and  best  o'  them  a',  man. 


79 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

I  lo'e  her  mvsel,  but  darena  weel  tell, 

My  poverty  keeps  me  in  awe,  man, 
For  making  o'  rhymes,  and  working  at  times. 

Does  little  or  naething  at  a',  man. 

Yet  I  wadna  choose  to  let  her  refuse. 
Nor  hae't  in  her  power  to  say  na,  man ; 

For  though  I  be  poor,  unnoticed,  obscure. 
My  stomach's  as  proud  as  them  a',  man. 

Though  I  canna  ride  in  weel -booted  pride. 
And  flee  o'er  the  hills  like  a  craw,  man, 

I  can  baud  up  my  head  with  the  best  o'  the  breed. 
Though  fluttering  ever  so  braw,  man. 

My  coat  and  my  vest,  they  are  Scotch  o'  the  best, 
O'  pairs  o'  guid  breeks  I  hae  twa,  man, 

And  stockings  and  pumps  to  put  on  my  stumps. 
And  ne'er  a  wrang  steek  in  them  a',  man. 

My  sarks  they  are  few,  but  five  o'  them  new, 
Twal'  hundred,  as  white  as  the  snaw,  man^ 

A  t^n-shillings  hat,  a  Holland  cravat ; 
There  are  no  mony  poets  sae  braw,  man. 

I  never  had  frien's  weel  stockit  in  means, 
To  leave  me  a  hundred  or  twa,  man ; 

Nae  weel-tochered  aunts,  to  wait  on  their  drants 
And  wish  them  in  hell  for  it  a',  man. 

I  never  was  cannie  for  hoarding  o'  money. 

Or  claughtin't  together  at  a*,  man, 
I've  little  to  spend,  and  naething  to  lend, 

But  devil  a  shilling  I  awe,  man. 

Robert  Burns 


80 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS  VERSE 


THE  JOYFUL  WIDOWER 

I  MARRIED  with  a  scolding  wife, 

The  fourteenth  of  November ; 
She  made  me  weary  of  my  life. 

By  one  unruly  member. 
Long  did  I  bear  the  heavy  yoke, 

And  many  griefs  attended ; 
But,  to  my  comfort  be  it  spoke. 

Now,  now  her  life  is  ended. 

We  liv'd  full  one-and-twenty  years, 

A  man  and  wife  together ; 
At  length  from  me  her  course  she  steer'd, 

And  gone  I  knew  not  whither ; 
Would  I  could  guess,  I  do  profess, 

I  speak,  and  do  not  flatter, 
Of  all  the  women  in  the  world, 

I  never  could  come  at  her. 

Her  body  is  bestowed  well, 

A  handsome  grave  does  hide  her ; 
But  sure  her  soul  is  not  in  hell. 

The  de'il  could  ne'er  abide  her. 
I  rather  think  she  is  aloft. 

And  imitating  thunder ; 
For  why, — methinks  I  hear  her  voice 

Tearing  the  clouds  asunder. 

Robert  Burns 


81 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


TO  JOHN  TAYLOR 

With  Pegasus  upon  a  day, 

Apollo  weary  flying, 
Through  frosty  hills  the  journey  lay, 

On  foot  the  way  was  plying. 

Poor  slipshod  giddy  Pegasus 

Was  but  a  sorry  walker ; 
To  Vulcan  then  Apollo  goes. 

To  get  a  frosty  calker. 

Obliging  Vulcan  fell  to  work. 
Threw  by  his  coat  and  bonnet. 

And  did  Sol's  business  in  a  crack ; 
Sol  paid  him  with  a  sonnet. 

Ye  Vulcan's  sons  of  Wanlockhead, 

Pity  my  sad  disaster ; 
My  Pegasus  is  poorly  shod 

I'll  pay  you  like  my  master. 

Robert  Burns 


LODGINGS  FOR  SINGLE  GENTLEMEN 

Who  has  e'er  been  in  London,  that  overgrown  place, 
Has  seen  *'  Lodgings  to  let "  stare  him  full  in  the  face  : 
Some   are  good,  and   let  dearly;  while    some,  'tis    well 

known. 
Are  so  dear,  and  so  bad,  they  are  best  let  alone. 

Will  Waddle,  whose  temper  was  studious  and  lonely, 
Hired  lodgings  that  took  single  gentlemen  only  ; 
But  Will  was  so  fat  he  appear' d  like  a  ton. 
Or  like  two  single  gentlemen  roll'd  into  one. 
82 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    pj^ 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    S^ 

He  enter'd  his  rooms,  and  to  bed  he  retreated  : 
But,  all  the  night  long,  he  felt  fever'd  and  heated  ; 
And,  though  heavy  to  weigh  as  a  score  of  fat  sheep. 
He  was  not,  by  any  means,  heavy  to  sleep. 

Next  night  'twas  the  same.    And  the  next.    And  the  next : 
He  perspired  like  an  ox  ;  he  was  nervous  and  vex'd  ; 
Week  past  after  week  ;  till,  by  weekly  succession, 
His  weakly  condition  was  past  all  expression. 

In  six  months,  his  acquaintance   began   much   to   doubt 

him: 
For  his  skin,  like  a  lady's  loose  gown  hung  about  him. 
He  sent  for  a  doctor ;  and  cried,  like  a  ninny, 
*'I  have  lost  many  pounds.     Make  me  well.     There's  a 

guinea." 

The  doctor  look'd  wise  : — "  A  slow  fever,"  he  said : 
Prescribed  sudorifics, — and  going  to  bed. 
"Sudorifics  in  bed,"  exclaim'd  Will,  "are  humbugs  ! 
I've  enough  of  them  there,  without  paying  for  drugs  !  " 

Will  kick'd  out  the  doctor  : — but,  when  ill  indeed. 
E'en  dismissing  the  doctor  don't  always  succeed ; 
So,  calling  his  host,  he  said  : — "  Sir,  do  you  know, 
I'm  the  fat  single  gentleman,  six  months  ago  ? 

"  Look'e,  landlord,  I  think,"  argued  Will,  with  a  grin, 
"  That  with  honest  intentions  you  first  took  me  in  : 
But  from  the  first  night — and  to  say  it  I'm  bold — 
I  have  been  so  d — — d  hot,  that  I'm  sure  I  caught  cold." 

Quoth  the  landlord,  '^  Till  now,  I  ne'er  had  a  dispute ; 
I've  let  lodgings  ten  years  ;  I'm  a  baker,  to  boot ; 
In  airing  your  sheets.  Sir,  my  wife  is  no  sloven ; 
And  your  bed  is  immediately  over  my  oven." 

"The  oven!"  says   Will.     Says    the    host,    "Why,    this 

passion } 
In  that  excellent  bed  died  three  people  of  fashion. 
Why  so  crusty,  good  Sir.?" — "Zounds  !  "  cried  Will,  in  a 

taking, 
"  Who  wouldn't  be  crusty,  with  half  a  year's  baking  }  " 

83 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


Will  paid  for  his  rooms  : — cried  the  host,  with  a  sneer, 

"Well,  I  see  you've  been  going  away  half  a  year." 

*^  Friend,   we  can't  well  agree, — yet    no    quarrel" — Will 

said  ; — 
"  But  I'd  rather  not  perish  while  you  make  your  bread." 
George  Colman,  the  younger 


THE  NEWCASTLE  APOTHECARY 

A  MAN,  in  a  country  town,  we  know. 
Professes  openly  with  death  to  wrestle  ; 

En t' ring  the  field  against  the  grimly  foe, 
Arm'd  with  a  mortar  and  a  pestle. 

Yet,  some  affirm,  no  enemies  they  are  ; 
But  meet  just  like  prize-fighters,  in  a  fair. 
Who  first  shake  hands  before  they  box, 
Then  give  each  other  plaguy  knocks. 
With  all  the  love  and  kindness  of  a  brother : 
So,  many  a  sufTring  patient  saith, 
Though  the  Apothecary  fights  with  Death, 
Still  they're  sworn  friends  to  one  another. 

A  member  of  this  iEsculapian  line 
Lived  at  Newcastle-upon-Tyne  ; 
No  man  could  better  gild  a  pill. 

Or  make  a  bill, 
Or  mix  a  draught,  or  bleed,  or  blister, 
Or  draw  a  tooth  out  of  your  head. 
Or  chatter  scandal  by  your  bed, 

Or  give  a  clyster. 
84 


^    AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF 
ISa    HUMOROUS   VERSE 

Of  occupations  these  were  quantum  siiff. : 

Yet,  still,  he  thought  the  list  not  long  enough  ; 

And  therefore  midwifery  he  chose  to  pin  to't. 
This  balanced  things  : — for  if  he  hurl'd 
A  few  score  mortals  from  the  world. 

He  made  amends  by  bringing  others  into't. 


His  fame  full  six  miles  round  the  country  ran  ; 

In  short,  in  reputation  he  was  solus  : 
All  the  old  women  call'd  him  a  ''fine  man  !  " 

His  name  was  Bolus. 


Benjamin  Bolus^  though  in  trade 

(Which  oftentimes  will  genius  fetter). 

Read  works  of  fancy,  it  is  said, 
And  cultivated  the  Belles -Lettres. 


And  why  should  this  be  thought  so  odd  ? 

Can't  men  have  taste  who  cure  a  phthisic  ? 
Of  poetry  though  patron-god, 

Apollo  patronizes  physic. 

Bolus  loved  verse  ; — and  took  so  much  delight  in% 
That  his  prescriptions  he  resolved  to  write  in't. 

No  opportunity  he  e*er  let  pass 

Of  writing  the  directions  on  his  labels, 
In  dapper  couplets, — like  Gay's  Fables ; 

Or,  rather,  like  the  lines  in  Hudibras. 


Apothecary's  verse  !     And  where's  the  treason  ? 

'Tis  simply  honest  dealing  : — not  a.  crime ; 
When  patients  swallow  physic  without  reason. 

It  is  but  fair  to  give  a  little  rhyme. 

85 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 

He  had  a  patient  lying  at  death's  door. 

Some  three  miles  from  the  town, — it  might  be  four ; 

To  whom,  one  evening,  Bolus  sent  an  article. 

In  Pharmacy,  that's  call'd  cathartical, 

And  on  the  label  of  the  stuff. 

He  wrote  this  verse ; 
Which,  one  would  think,  was  clear  enough^ 
And  terse : — 

"  Wkefi  taken 
To  be  well  shaken." 

Next  morning,  early,  Bolus  rose  ; 
And  to  the  patient's  house  he  goes. 

Upon  his  pad. 
Who  a  vile  trick  of  stumbling  had  : 
It  was,  indeed,  a  very  sorry  hack  ; 

But  that's  of  course  : 

For  what's  expected  from  a  horse 
With  an  Apothecary  on  his  back  ? 
Bolus  arrived ;  and  gave  a  doubtful  tap. 
Between  a  single  and  a  double  rap. 

Knocks  of  this  kind 
Are  given  by  gentlemen  who  teach  to  dance. 

By  fiddlers,  and  by  opera-singers  : 
One  loud,  and  then  a  little  one  behind ; 
As  if  the  knocker  fell,  by  chance. 

Out  of  their  fingers. 

The  servant  let  him  in,  with  dismal  face, 
Long  as  a  courtier's  out  of  place — 

Portending  some  disaster  ; 
John's  countenance  as  rueful  look'd,  and  grim, 
As  if  th'  Apothecar)^  had  physick'd  him. 

And  not  his  master. 
"  Well,  how's  the  patient  ? "  Bolus  said. 
John  shook  his  head, 
"  Indeed — hum  !  ha  !— that's  very  odd  ! 
He  took  the  draught  ?  "     John  gave  a  nod. 
"  Well, — how  !* — what  then  ? — speak  out,  you  dunce  ! 
"  Why,  then,"  says  John,  "  we  shook  him  once/* 
86 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF    R^ 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    HS 

"  Shook  him  !     How  ?  " — Bolus  stammer'd  out. 

*' We  jolted  him  about." 
"  Zounds  !     Shake  a  patient,  man ! — a  shake  won't  do." 
*'  No,  Sir, — and  so  we  gave  him  two." 
"  Two  shakes  !  od's  curse  ! 
'Twould  make  the  patient  worse." 
"  It  did  so,  Sir  ! — and  so  a  third  we  tried." 
"  Well,  and  what  then  ? "— "  Then,  Sir,  my  master  died  ! " 
George  Colman,  the  younger 


THE  LAIRD  O'  COCKPEN 

The  Laird  o'  Cockpen  he's  proud  an*  he's  great. 
His  mind  is  ta'en  up  wi'  things  o'  the  State ; 
He  wanted  a  wife  his  braw  house  to  keep. 
But  favour  wi'  wooin'  was  fashions  to  seek. 

Doon  by  the  dyke-side  a  lady  did  dwell. 
At  his  table-head  he  thocht  she'd  look  well 
M'Cleish's  ae  dochter,  o'  Clavers-ha'  Lee, 
A  penniless  lass  wi'  a  long  pedigree. 

His  wig  was  weel  pouther'd,  as  gude  as  when  new ; 
His  waistcoat  was  white,  his  coat  it  was  blue ; 
He  put  on  a  ring,  a  sword,  an'  cocked  hat. 
An'  wha'  could  refuse  the  Laird  wi'  a'  that  ? 

He  took  the  grey  mare,  he  rode  cannilie. 

An'  rapped  at  the  yett  o'  Clavers-ha'  Lee ; 

''  Gae  tell  Mistress  Jean  to  come  speedily  ben, — 

She's  wanted  to  speak  wi'  the  Laird  o'  Cockpen." 

Mistress  Jean  she  was  makin'  the  elder-flow'r  wine ; 
"  An'  what  brings  the  Laird  at  sic  a  like  time  ?  " 
She  put  afF  her  apron,  an'  on  her  silk  goon. 
Her  mutch  wi'  red  ribbons,  an  gaed  awa  doon. 

87 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    g 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    C 

An*  when  she  cam'  ben  he  bow^d  fu'  low, 
An'  what  was  his  errand  he  soon  let  her  know ; 
Amazed  was  the  Laird  when  the  lady  said,  ''  Na  !  " 
An'  wi'  a  laigh  curtsie  she  turned  awa'  ! 

Dumfounder'd  was  he,  but  nae  sigh  did  he  gi'e — 
He  mounted  his  mare,  an*  he  rode  cannilie ; 
An'  often  he  thocht,  as  he  gaed  through  the  glen, 
"  She's  daft  to  refuse  the  Laird  o'  Cockpen  ! " 

Lady  Nairne 

[Additional  Stanzas.] 

An*  noo  that  the  Laird  his  exit  had  made. 
Mistress  Jean  she  reflected  on  what  she  had  said ; 
"  For  ane  I'll  get  better,  it's  waur  I'll  get  ten, 
I  was  daft  to  refuse  the  Laird  o*  Cockpen." 

Neist  time  that  the  Laird  an'  the  Leddy  were  seen. 
Was  gaun  arm  in  arm  to  the  Kirk  on  the  green ; 
Noo  she  sits  in  the  ha'  like  a  weel-tappit  hen. 
But  as  yet  there's  nae  chickens  appear' d  at  Cockpen, 

Susan  Ferrier 


THE  KNIFE-GRINDER 

A    DIALOGUE    IN    SAPPHICS 

Friend  of  Humanity 
'^  Needy  Knife-grinder  !  whither  are  you  going  ? 
Rough  is  the  road — your  wheel  is  out  of  order — 
Bleak  blows  the  blast ;  your  hat  has  got  a  hole  in't. 

So  have  your  breeches  ! 

"  Weary  Knife-grinder  !  little  think  the  proud  ones. 
Who  in  their  coaches  roll  along  the  turnpike- 
Road,  what  hard  work  'tis  crying  all  day,  '  Knives !  and 

Scissors  to  grind  O  ! ' 
88 


^    AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF    ^ 
iSi    HUMOROUS   VERSE    HS 

"  Tell  me.  Knife-grinder,  how  you  came  to  grind  knives  ? 
Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  you  ? 
Was  it  the  squire  ?  or  parson  of  the  parish  ? 

Or  the  attorney  ? 

*'  Was  it  the  squire,  for  killing  of  his  game  ?  or 
Covetous  parson,  for  his  tithes  distraining  ? 
Or  roguish  lawyer,  made  you  lose  your  little 

AH  in  a  law-suit  ? 

"  (Have  you  not  read  the  Rights  of  Man,  by  Tom  Paine  ?) 
Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eyelids, 
Ready  to  fall,  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 

Pitiful  story." 

Knife-Grinder 
"  Story  !  God  bless  you  !  I  have  none  to  tell,  sir, 
Only  last  night,  a-drinking  at  the  Chequers, 
This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you  see,  were 

Torn  in  a  scuffle. 

*'  Constables  came  up  for  to  take  me  into 
Custody ;  they  took  me  before  the  justice ; 
Justice  Oldmixon  put  me  in  the  parish- 
Stocks  for  a  vagrant. 

*^  I  should  be  glad  to  drink  your  Honour's  health  in 
A  pot  of  beer,  if  you  will  give  me  sixpence ; 
But  for  my  part,  1  never  love  to  meddle 

With  politics,  sir.*' 

Friend  of  Humanity 
"  /  give  thee  sixpence  !  I  will  see  thee  damn'd  first — 
Wretch !   whom   no   sense   of  wrongs   can  rouse   to 

vengeance — 
Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded. 

Spiritless  outcast ! " 
(Kicks  the  Knife-grinder,  oveHums  his  wheels  and  exit 
in   a    transport    of   Republican    enthusiasm    and 
universal  philanthropy.) 

George  Canning 

89 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  GOTTINGEN 

Whene'er  with  haggard  eyes  I  view 
This  dungeon  that  I'm  rotting  in, 
I  think  of  those  companions  true 
Who  studied  with  me  at  the  U- 
-niversity  of  Gdttingen- 
-niversity  of  Gottingen. 
(  Weeps  aiid  pulls  out  a  blue  handkerchief  j  with  which  he 
wipes  his  eyes  ;  gazing  tenderly  at  it,  he  proceeds.) 

Sweet  kerchief,  check'd  with  heavenly  blue 

Which  once  my  love  sat  knotting  in  ? — 
Alas  !  Matilda  then  was  true  ! 
At  least  I  thought  so  at  the  U- 
-niversity  of  Gottingen- 
-niversity  of  Gottingen. 
(^At  the  repetition  of  this  line  Rogero  clanks  his  chains 
in  cadence.) 

Barbs !  Barbs  !  alas  !  how  swift  you  flew 

Her  neat  post-waggon  trotting  in  ! 
Ye  bore  Matilda  from  my  view ; 
Forlorn  I  languish' d  at  the  U- 
-niversity  of  Gottingen- 
-niversity  of  Gottingen. 

This  faded  form !  this  pallid  hue  ! 

This  blood  my  veins  is  clotting  in. 
My  years  are  many — they  were  few 
When  first  I  enter'd  at  the  U- 
-niversity  of  Gottingen- 
-niversity  of  Gottingen. 

There  first  for  thee  my  passion  grew. 
Sweet  !  sweet  Matilda  Pottingen  I 
Thou  wast  the  daughter  of  my  tu- 
-tor,  law  professor  at  the  U- 
-niversity  of  Gottingen- 
-niversity  of  Gottingen. 
90 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF    ^ 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    ^ 

Sun,  moon,  and  thou  vain  world,  adieu, 

That  kings  and  priests  are  plotting  in : 
Here  doom'd  to  starve  on  water  gru- 
el, never  shall  I  see  the  U- 
-niversity  of  Gottingen- 
-niversity  of  Gottingen. 
(During  the  last  stanza  Rogero  dashes  his  head  re- 
peatedly against  the  walls  of  his  prison,  andjinally 
so  hard,  as  to  produce  a  visible  contusion  ;  he  then 
throws  himself  on  the  floor  in  an  agony.     The 
curtain  drops  ;  the  music  still  continuing  to  play  till 
it  is  wholly  fallen.) 

George  Canning 


iwmm. 


THE  CATARACT  OF  LODORE 

How  does  the  water  come  down  at  Lodore  ? 
From  its  sources  which  well 
In  the  tarn  on  the  fell ; 
From  its  fountains 
In  the  mountains, 
Its  rills 
And  its  gills ; 
Through  moss  and  through  brake, 
It  runs  and  it  creeps 
For  awhile,  till  it  sleeps 
In  its  own  little  lake. 
And  thence  at  departing. 
Awakening  and  starting, 

91 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 

It  runs  through  the  reeds, 

And  away  it  proceeds 

Through  meadow  and  glade. 

In  sun  and  in  shade. 

And  through  the  good  shelter, 
Among  crags  in  its  flurry. 
Helter-skelter, 
Hurry,  skurry. 

Here  it  comes  sparkling, 

And  there  it  lies  darkling ; 

Now  smoking  and  frothing 

Its  tumult  and  wrath  in ; 

Till,  in  this  rapid  race 

On  which  it  is  bent. 

It  reaches  the  place 

Of  its  steep  descent. 

The  cataract  strong 

Then  plunges  along ; 

Striking  and  raging. 

As  if  a  war  waging 
Its  caverns  and  rocks  among  : 

Rising  and  leaping. 

Sinking  and  creeping. 

Swelling  and  sweeping, 

Showering  and  springing^ 

Flying  and  flinging, 

Writhing  and  ringing. 

Eddying  and  whisking, 

Spouting  and  frisking. 

Turning  and  twisting. 

Around  and  around 

With  endless  rebound : 

Smiting  and  fighting, 

A  sight  to  delight  in, 
Confounding, 
Astounding, 
Dizzying  and  deafening  the  earth  with  its  sound : 

Collecting,  projecting. 

Receding  and  speeding, 
92 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF    fsT;^    ^    f^ 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    ^a    ^    tSa 

And  shocking  and  rocking, 

And  darting  and  parting. 

And  threading  and  spreading, 

And  whizzing  and  hissing. 

And  dripping  and  skipping, 

And  hitting  and  spitting, 

And  shining  and  twining, 

And  rattling  and  battling, 

And  shaking  and  quaking. 

And  pouring  and  roaring, 

And  waving  and  raving, 

And  tossing  and  crossing, 

And  flowing  and  going. 

And  running  and  stunning. 

And  foaming  and  roaming. 

And  dinning  and  spinning, 

And  dropping  and  hopping, 

And  working  and  jerking, 

And  guggling  and  struggling, 

And  heaving  and  cleaving. 

And  moaning  and  groaning  ; 

And  glittering  and  flittering. 

And  gathering  and  feathering. 

And  whitening  and  brightening. 

And  quivering  and  shivering. 

And  hurrying  and  skurrying. 

And  thundering  and  floundering ; 
Dividing  and  gliding  and  sliding ; 
And  falling  and  brawling  and  sprawling, 
And  driving  and  riving  and  striving. 
And  sprinkling  and  twinkling  and  wrinkling. 
And  sounding  and  bounding  and  rounding. 
And  bubbling  and  troubling  and  doubling. 
And  grumbling  and  rumbling  and  tumbling ; 
And  clattering  and  battering  and  shattering ; 
Retreating  and  beating  and  meeting  and  sheeting, 
Delaying  and  straying  and  playing  and  spraying. 
Advancing  and  prancing  and  glancing  and  dancing, 


93 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    ^ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ISb 

Recoiling,  turmoiling,  and  toiling  and  boiling, 
And  gleaming  and  streaming  and  steaming  and  beaming. 
And  rushing  and  flushing  and  brushing  and  pushing, 
And  flapping  and  rapping  and  clapping  and  slapping, 
And  curling  and  whirling  and  purling  and  twirling, 
And  thumping  and  plumping  and  bumping  and  jumping. 
And  dashing  and  flashing  and  splashing  and  clashing ; 

And  so  never  ending. 

But  always  descending. 
Sounds  and  motions  for  ever  and  ever  are  blending. 

All  at  once  and  all  o'er, 

With  a  mighty  uproar ; 
All  this  way  the  water  comes  down  at  Lodore ! 

Robert  Southey 


PINDARIC  ODE  TO  THE  TREADMILL 

Inspire  my  spirit,  Spirit  of  De  Foe, 

That  sang  the  Pillory, 

In  loftier  strains  to  show 

A  more  sublime  Machine 

Than  that,  where  thou  wert  seen. 

With  neck  out-stretcht  and  shoulders  ill  awry, 

Courting  coarse  plaudits  from  vile  crowds  below— 

A  most  unseemly  show  ! 

In  such  a  place 

W^ho  could  expose  thy  face, 

Historiographer  of  deathless  Crusoe  ' 

That  paint' st  the  strife 

And  all  the  naked  ills  of  savage  life. 

Far  above  Rousseau  ? 

Rather  myself  had  stood 

In  that  ignoble  wood, 

94 


^    AN    ANTHOLOGY    OF 
ISi    HUMOROUS   VERSE 

Bare  to  the  mob,  on  holiday  or  high  clay. 

If  nought  else  could  atone  , 

For  waggish  libel, 

I  swear  on  Bible, 

I  would  have  spared  him  for  thy  sake  alone, 

Man  Friday  ! 


Our  ancestors*  were  sour  days. 
Great  Master  of  Romance  ! 
A  milder  doom  had  fallen  to  thy  chance 
In  our  days  : 
Thy  sole  assignment 
Some  solitary  confinement 
(Not  worth  thy  care  a  carrot). 
Where,  in  world-hidden  cell 
Thou  thy  own  Crusoe  might  have  acted  well. 
Only  without  the  parrot ; 
By  sure  experience  taught  to  know. 

Whether  the  qualms  thou  mak'st  him  feel  were  truly  such 
or  no. 

But  stay  !  methinks  in  statelier  measure — 

A  more  companionable  pleasure — 

I  see  thy  steps  the  mighty  Tread-mill  trace 

(The  subject  of  my  song, 

Delay'd  however  long). 

And  some  of  thine  own  race. 

To  keep  thee  company,  thou  bring'st  with  thee  along. 

There  with  thee  go, 

Link'd  in  like  sentence. 

With  regulated  pace  and  footing  slow. 

Each  old  acquaintance. 

Rogue— harlot— thief— that  live  to  future  ages ; 

Through  many  a  labour'd  tome, 

Rankly  embalm'd  in  thy  too  natural  pages. 

Faith,  friend  De  Foe,  thou  are  quite  at  home  ! 

Not  one  of  thy  great  offspring  thou  dost  lack. 

From  pirate  Singletome  to  pilfering  Jack. 

95 


ln!;^    ^    AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF 
as    1^    HUMOROUS   VERSE 

Here  Flandrian  Moll  her  brazen  incest  brags  ; 
Vicc-stript  Roxana,  penitent  in  rags, 
There  points  to  Amy,  treading  equal  chimes. 
The  faithful  hand-maid  to  her  faithless  crimes. 

Incompetent  my  song  to  raise 

To  its  just  height  thy  praise, 

Great  Mill ! 

That  by  thy  motion  proper 

(No  thanks  to  wind,  or  sail,  or  working  rill). 

Grinding  that  stubborn  corn,  the  Human  will, 

Tum'st  out  men's  consciences. 

That  were  begrimed  before,  as  clean  and  sweet 

As  flour  from  purest  wheat, 

Into  thy  hopper. 

All  reformation  short  of  thee  but  nonsense  is. 

Or  human  or  divine. 

Compared  with  thee. 

What  are  the  labours  of  the  Jumping  Sect, 

Which  feeble  laws  connive  at  rather  than  respect  ? 

Thou  dost  not  bump, 

Or  jump, 

But  walk  men  into  virtue  ;  betwixt  crime 

And  slow  repentance  giving  breathing  time 

And  leisure  to  be  good ; 

Instructing  with  discretion  demi-reps 

How  to  direct  their  steps. 

Thou  best  Philosopher  made  out  of  wood ! 

Not  that  which  framed  thy  tub. 

Where  sat  the  Cynic  cub. 

With  nothing  in  his  bosom  sympathetic  ; 

But  from  those  groves  derived,  I  deem, 

Where  Plato  nursed  his  dream 

Of  immortality ; 

Seeing  that  clearly 

Thy  system  all  is  merely 

Peripatetic. 

96 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    R7^    jOT    ^ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^S    IeSS    CSa 

Thou  to  thy  pupils  dost  such  lessons  give 

Of  how  to  live 

With  temperance,  sobriety,  morality 

(A  new  art). 

That  from  thy  school,  by  force  of  virtuous  deeds, 

Each  Tyro  now  proceeds 

A  "  Walking  Stewart  ?  " 

Charles  Lamb 


THE  EDINBURGH  REVIEWERS 

0  Matre  pulcra  Jilia  pulchrior 

O  RIGOROUS  sons  of  a  clime  more  severe 

If  Horace  in  London  offend, 
Unbought  let  him  perish,  unread  disappear, 

But,  ah  !  do  not  hasten  his  end. 

Not  whisker'd  Geramb  who  veracity  braves 

In  boasting  of  princely  delights. 
Not  Rowland,  when  thumping  the  cushion  he  raves. 

Of  Beelzebub's  capering  sprites. 

Are  mad  as  the  Martyr  inviting  the  whips 

Of  poesy's  merciless  reign ; 
Who  like  Mrs.  Brownrigg  her  'prentices  strips, 

Then  kills  them  with  famine  and  pain. 

'Tis  said  when  the  box  of  Pandora  flew  ope, 

A  treasure  was  found  underneath  : 
It  seem'd  to  the  vulgar  a  figure  of  Hope, 

To  poets  a  laureat  wreath. 

'Twas  this  ignis  fatuus  tempting  to  roam. 

That  lighted  poor  Burns  to  his  fate ; 
That  bade  him  abandon  his  plough  and  his  home 

To  starve  amid  cities  and  state. 

G  97 


??    K0    K3    R3    K3    AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
!i    as    ESB    HS    £38    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Me,  too,  has  the  treacherous  phantom  inspir'd 

In  moments  of  youthful  delight ; 
With  lyric  presumption  my  bosom  has  fir'd, 

To  imitate  Horace's  might. 

Repentant,  henceforth,  I  will  write  like  a  dunce 

In  prose  all  the  rest  of  my  life. 
If  you,  dread  dissectors,  will  spare  me  this  once 
The  smart  of  your  critical  knife. 

James  and  Horace  Smith 
C^  Horace  in  London,"  Book  I.  Ode  XVI.) 


TO  THE  COMIC  MUSE 

PescimuSf  si  quid  vacui  sub  timhra 

Sweet  Muse  !  beneath  Apollo*s  ray. 
If  ever  I,  your  charms  adoring, 

Begot  a  jocund  roundelay. 

The  noisy  gods  thought  worth  encoring- 

Come  now  and  with  your  archest  smile. 
Inspire,  sweet  maid,  a  comic  ditty. 

Something  in  Colmans  humorous  style. 
And  just  about  one  third  as  witty. 

By  either  sister,  lov'd,  caress'd. 

He,  gay  deceiver,  picks  and  chuses : 

To  serve  two  masters  is  no  jest. 

But  he  contrives  to  serve  two  muses. 

Now  he  portrays  the  man  of  pelf, 
Unmov'd  by  Yarico's  disaster ; 

And  now  the  Latin-quoting  elf. 

Still  cringing  to  the  wealthiest  master. 
98 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 

To  Afric's  sultry  plain  convey'd. 

To  paint  the  ardent  Moor's  distresses, 

He  toys  with  Sutta,  dingy  maid. 
With  eyes  as  sable  as  her  tresses. 

From  grave  to  gay  he  loves  to  fly. 
Whilst  I  with  you  alone  would  tarry ; 

A  constant  Colonel  Standard  I, 
And  he  a  volatile  Sir  Harry. 

O  pride  of  Phoebus !  heavenly  fair  ! 

Rare  visitant  at  great  men's  tables, 
Whose  smile  can  make  old-fashion'd  Care 

DofF  for  a  while  his  suit  of  sables. 

Enroll  me  on  your  jovial  staff. 

Sworn  foe  to  sentimental  sadness. 
And  I  will  live  to  love  and  laugh. 

And  wake  the  lyre  to  you  and  gladness. 

James  and  Horace  Smith 
("Horace  in  London,"  Book  I.  Ode  XXXH.) 


THE  LYRICAL  LACKEY 

Non  itsitatd  nee  tenui  ferar 

Stand  clear !  and  let  a  poet  fly  : 

On  this  wing  lyric. 

That  satyric, 
ril  mount,  like  Garnerin,  the  sky. 

Nor  mope  in  Grub  Street  garret : 
Though  lowly  born,  I'll  fear  discard, 

My  polished  odes 

To  gay  abodes 
Shall  bowl  me,  like  a  merry  bard, 
To  sing  and  tipple  claret. 

Enroll'd  among  the  black-leg  race. 

No  longer  man, 

A  milk-white  swan. 
Aloft  my  airy  course  I  trace, 

9$ 


S3    lOT    (Sn    AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    g 

^  aa  sai  HUMOROUS  verse  g 

And  mount  o'er  London  city — 
On  wings  of  foolscap,  wire- wove,  glaz'd 
Thro'  margin  wide, 
Serene  I  glide. 
Whilst  long-ear'd  citizens  amazed, 
Cry  "  bravo,"  at  ray  ditty. 

Trotting  thro'  Pindus'  flow'ry  path, 

In  waltzes,  reels, 

I'll  shake  my  heels, 
I'll  dip  at  Brighton,  sip  at  Bath, 
And  doff  my  suit  of  sables — 
Tall  Tully  of  a  Spouting  Club, 

I'll  mimic  Pitt 

In  all  but  wit. 
And  cut  the  Diogenic  tub 
For  Alexandrine  tables. 

Tho'  all  the  while  my  proper  self 

Is  snug  at  home. 

My  pen  shall  roam 
A  modish  tour  in  quest  of  pelf, 
And  scorning  critic  cavils, 
I'll  visit  Egypt,  Florence,  Greece, 

And  then  return, 

Thro'  Basle  and  Berne, 
The  London  booksellers  to  fleece. 
And  sell  John  Bull  my  travels. 

Of  epics,  I'll  compose  afew; 
The  vile  reviews, 
I'll  ne'er  peruse ; 
I'll  edit  bards  I  never  knew  : 

I'll  catch  at  all  commissions  : 
Like  Harlequin,  tho'  far  more  plump. 
My  tricks  I'll  play. 
Then  hey  !  away  I 
Bounce  at  a  single  leap,  I'll  jump 
Thro'  half  a  score  editions  ! 

James  and  Horace  Smith 
("  Horace  in  London,"  Book  II.  Ode  XX.) 
100 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


WINTER 

Fides,  ut  alid  stet  nive  candidtim  Soracte 

See,  Richmond  is  clad  in  a  mantle  of  snow ; 

The  woods  that  o'ershadow'd  the  hill 
Now  bend  with  their  load,  while  the  river  below. 
In  musical  murmurs  forgetting  to  flow, 

Stands  mournfully  frozen  and  still. 

Who  cares  for  the  winter  !  my  sunbeams  shall  shine 

Serene  from  a  register  stove ; 
With  two  or  three  jolly  companions  to  dine. 
And  two  or  three  bottles  of  generous  wine. 

The  rest  I  relinquish  to  Jove. 

The  oak  bows  its  head  in  the  hurricane's  swell, 

Condemn'd  in  its  glory  to  fall ; 
The  marigold  dies  unperceiv'd  in  the  dell. 
Unable  alike  to  retard  or  impel. 

The  crisis  assigned  to  us  all. 

Then  banish  to-morrow,  its  hopes  and  its  fears, 

To-day  is  the  prize  we  have  won  : 
Ere  surly  old  age  in  its  wrinkles  appears, 
With  laughter  and  love,  in  your  juvenile  years 

Make  sure  of  the  days  as  they  run. 

The  park  and  the  playhouse  my  presence  shall  greet. 

The  opera  yield  its  delight ; 
Catalani  may  charm  me,  but  oh  !  far  more  sweet. 
The  musical  voice  of  Laurette  when  we  meet 

In  tete-d-tete  concert  at  night. 

False  looks  of  denial  in  vain  would  she  fling, 

In  vain  to  some  corner  be  gone  ; 
And  if  in  our  kisses  I  snatch  off  her  ring. 
It  is  to  my  fancy,  a  much  better  thing 
Than  a  kiss  after  putting  one  on  ! 

James  and  Horace  Smith 
{"  Horace  in  London,"  Book  I.  Ode  IX.) 

101 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


THE  JESTER  CONDEMNED  TO  DEATH 

One  of  the  Kings  of  Scanderoon, 

A  Royal  Jester 
Had  in  his  train,  a  gross  buffoon, 

Who  used  to  pester 
The  court  with  tricks  inopportune, 
Venting  on  the  highest  folks  his 
Scurvy  pleasantries  and  hoaxes. 

It  needs  some  sense  to  play  the  fool ; 

Which  wholesome  rule 
Occurr'd  not  to  our  jackanapes. 

Who  consequently  found  his  freaks 
Lead  to  innumerable  scrapes. 

And  quite  as  many  kicks  and  tweaks, 
Which  only  seem'd  to  make  him  faster 
Try  the  patience  of  his  master. 

Some  sin  at  last,  beyond  all  measure, 
Incurr'd  the  desperate  displeasure 

Of  his  serene  and  raging  Highness  : 
Whether  the  wag  had  twitch'd  his  beard. 
Which  he  felt  bound  to  have  revered. 

Or  had  intruded  on  the  shyness 
Of  the  seraglio,  or  let  fly 
An  epigram  at  royalty. 
None  knows — his  sin  was  an  occult  one  ; 
But  records  tell  us  that  the  Sultan, 
Meaning  to  terrify  the  knave, 

Exclaim'd — "  'Tis  time  to  stop  that  breath  ; 
Thy  doom  is  seal'd  ; — presumptuous  slave  ! 

Thou  stand'st  condemn'd  to  certain  death. 
Silence,  base  rebel  I — no  replying ! — 

But  such  is  my  indulgence  still, 

That,  of  my  own  free  grace  and  vdll, 
I  leave  to  thee  the  mode  of  dying." 
102 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

"  Thy  royal  will  be  done — 'tis  just," 
Replied  the  wretch,  and  kiss'd  the  dust ; 

"  Since,  my  last  moments  to  assuage. 
Your  Majesty's  humane  decree 
Has  deign'd  to  leave  the  choice  to  me, 

I'll  die,  so  please  you,  of  old  age  !  " 

Horace  Smith 


THE  COLLEGIAN  AND  THE  PORTER 

At  Trin.  Col.  Cam. — which  means,  in  proper  spelling, 

Trinity  College,  Cambridge — there  resided 
One  Harry  Dashington — a  youth  excelling 

In  all  the  learning  commonly  provided 
For  those  who  chose  that  classic  station 
For  finishing  their  education. 
That  is — he  understood  computing 

The  odds  at  any  race  or  match ; 
Was  a  dead  hand  at  pigeon-shooting ; 

Could  kick  up  rows — knock  down  the  watch — • 
Play  truant  and  the  rake  at  random — 

Drink — tie  cravats — and  drive  a  tandem. 

Remonstrance,  fine,  and  rustication. 
So  far  from  working  reformation, 

Seem'd  but  to  make  his  lapses  greater. 
Till  he  was  warned  that  next  offence 
Would  have  this  certain  consequence — 

Expulsion  from  his  Alma  Mater. 

One  need  not  be  a  necromancer 

To  guess,  that,  with  so  wild  a  wight. 

The  next  offence  occurr'd  next  night ; 

When  our  Incurable  came  rolling 

Home,  as  the  midnight  chimes  were  tolling, 
And  rang  the  College  Bell.     No  answer. 

103 


In?^    Ra    AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 

aa  ^  HUMOROUS  verse 

The  second  peal  was  vain — the  third 

Made  the  street  echo  its  alarum. 
When  to  his  great  delight  he  heard 
The  sordid  Janitor,  Old  Ben, 
Rousing  and  growling  in  his  den. 
"  Who's  there  ? — I  s'pose  young  Harum-Scarum." 
'^'Tis  I,  my  worthy  Ben — 'tis  Harry." 
"Ay,  so  I  thought— and  there  you'll  tarry. 
'Tis  past  the  hour — the  gates  are  closed — 

You  know  my  orders — I  shall  lose 
My  place  if  I  undo  the  door." 
"  And  I  "  (young  Hopeful  interposed) 

"  Shall  be  expell'd  if  you  refuse. 
So  prythee  " — Ben  began  to  snore. 
"  I'm  wet,"  cried  Harry,  "  to  the  skin. 

Hip !  hallo  !  Ben — don't  be  a  ninny ; 

Beneath  the  gate  I've  thrust  a  guinea. 
So  tumble  out  and  let  me  in." 

"  Humph  ! "  growl'd  the  greedy  old  curmudgeon, 
Half  overjoy'd  and  half  in  dudgeon, 
"  Now  you  may  pass ;  but  make  no  fuss, 

On  tip-toe  walk,  and  hold  your  prate." 
"  Look  on  the  stones,  old  Cerberus," 

Cried  Harry  as  he  pass'd  the  gate, 
"  I've  dropped  a  shilling — take  the  light, 
"  You'll  find  it  just  outside — good-night." 

Behold  the  porter  in  his  shirt. 

Dripping  with  rain  that  never  stopp'd, 

Groping  and  raking  in  the  dirt. 

And  all  without  success ;  but  that 

Is  hardly  to  be  wonder'd  at. 

Because  no  shilling  had  been  dropp'd ; 

So  he  gave  o'er  the  search  at  last, 

Regain'd  the  door,  and  found  it  fast ! 

With  sundry  oaths,  and  growls,  and  groans. 
He  rang  once — twice — and  thrice ;  and  then. 

Mingled  with  giggling,  heard  the  tones 
Of  Harry,  mimicking  old  Ben^^ — 

104 


^    AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    RJ^ 
C^    HUMOROUS    VERSE    HS 

"  Who's  there  ?  'Tis  really  a  disgrace 
To  ring  so  loud — I've  lock'd  the  gate, 
I  know  my  duty.     'Tis  too  late. 

You  wouldn't  have  me  lose  my  place  !  " 

"  Psha  !  Mr.  Dashington  ;  remember 
This  is  the  middle  of  November, 

I'm  stripped ;  'tis  raining  cats  and  dogs  " — 
"  Hush,  hush  !  "  quoth  Hal,  "  I'm  fast  asleep  "  ; 
And  then  he  snored  as  loud  and  deep 

As  a  whole  company  of  hogs. 
'*  But,  hark  ye,  Ben,  I'll  grant  admittance 

At  the  same  rate  I  paid  myself." 
*'Nay,  master,  leave  me  half  the  pittance," 

Replied  the  avaricious  elf. 
"  No — all  or  none — a  full  acquittance ; 
The  terms,  I  know,  are  somewhat  high ; 
But  you  have  fix'd  the  price,  not  I — 

I  won't  take  less;  I  can't  afford  it." 
So,  finding  all  his  haggling  vain, 
Ben,  with  an  oath  and  groan  of  pain, 

Drew  out  the  guinea,  and  restored  it. 

"  Surely  you  will  give  me,"  growl'd  the  outwitted 

Porter,  when  again  admitted, 

"  Something,  now  you've  done  your  joking. 

For  all  this  trouble,  time,  and  soaking." 

"Oh,  surely,  surely,"  Harry  said, 

"  Since,  as  you  urge,  I  broke  your  rest. 

And  you're  half-drown'd  and  quite  undress'd, 

I'll  give  you,"  said  the  generous  fellow — 

Free,  as  most  people  are,  when  mellow — 

"  Yes,  I'll  give  you — leave  to  go  to  bed !  " 

Horace  Smith 


105 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


THE  DONKEY  AND  HIS  PANNIERS 

A  DONKEY  whose  talent  for  burden  was  wond'rous. 
So  much  that  you'd  swear  he  rejoiced  in  a  load. 

One  day  had  to  jog  under  panniers  so  pond'rous, 

That — down  the  poor  donkey  fell,  smack  on  the  road. 

His  owners  and  drivers  stood  round  in  amaze — 
What !  Neddy,  the  patient,  the  prosperous  Neddy, 

So  easy  to  drive  through  the  dirtiest  ways. 
For  every  description  of  job-work  so  ready  ! 

One  driver  (whom  Ned  might  have  "  hail'd  "  as  a 
*f  brother") 

Had  just  been  proclaiming  his  donkey's  renown. 
For  vigour,  for  spirit,  for  one  thing  or  other, — 

When,  lo,  'mid  his  praises,  the  donkey  came  down. 

But,  how  to  upraise  him  ? — One  shouts,  t'other  whistles, 

While  Jenky  the  conjuror,  wisest  of  all. 
Declared  that  an  "  over-production  "  of  thistles — 

(Here  Ned  gave  a  stare) — was  the  cause  of  his  fall. 

Another  wise  Solomon  cries,  as  he  passes, — 

*'  There,  let  him  alone,  and  the  fit  will  soon  cease  ; 

The  beast  has  been  fighting  with  other  jack-asses. 
And  this  is  his  mode  of  '  transition  to  peace.'  " 

Some  looked  at  his  hoofs,  and,  with  learned  grimaces. 
Pronounced  that  too  long  without  shoes  he  had  gone— 

"  Let  the  blacksmith  provide  him  a  sound  metal  basis, 
(The  wiseacres  said),  and  he's  sure  to  jog  on." 

But  others  who  gabbled  a  jargon  half  Gaelic, 

Exclaimed,  "  Hoot  away,  mon,  you're  a'  gane  astray  "- 

And  declared  that  "  who'er  might  prefer  the  metallic, 
They'd  shoe  their  own  donkeys  with  papier  7ndcke." 

106 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    RfZ 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    ESS 

Meanwhile  the  poor  Neddy,  in  torture  and  fear. 
Lay  under  his  pannier,  scarce  able  to  groan. 

And — what  was  still  dolefuller — lending  an  ear 
To  advisers  whose  ears  were  a  match  for  his  own. 

At  length,  a  plain  rustic,  whose  wit  went  so  far 
As  to  see  others'  folly,  roared  out,  as  he  passed — 

"  Quick — off  with  the  panniers,  all  dolts  as  ye  are. 
Or  your  prosperous  Neddy  will  soon  kick  his  last.'* 

Thomas  Moore 


RHYMES  ON  THE  ROAD 

And  is  there  then  no  earthly  place 

Where  we  can  rest  in  dream  Elysian, 
Without  some  cursed,  round  English  face. 

Popping  up  near,  to  break  the  vision  ? 

'Mid  northern  lakes,  'mid  southern  vines. 

Unholy  cits  we're  doomed  to  meet ; 
Nor  highest  Alps  nor  Apennines 

Are  sacred  from  Threadneedle  Street ! 

If  up  the  Simplon's  path  we  wind, 
Fancying  we  leave  this  world  behind. 
Such  pleasant  sounds  salute  one's  ear 
As — "  Baddish  news  from  'Change,  my  dear — 

"  The  Funds — (phew,  curse  this  ugly  hill !) 
Are  lowering  fast — (what !  higher  still  ?) 
And — (zooks  we're  mounting  up  to  heaven !) — 
Will  soon  be  down  to  sixty-seven." 

101, 


K0    K3    IlnJ^    K3    AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HS    ^    yi^    ^    HUMOROUS  VERSE 

Go  where  we  may,  rest  where  we  will. 

Eternal  London  haunts  us  still. 

The  trash  of  Almack's  or  Fleet-Ditch — 

And  scarce  a  pin's  head  difference  which — 

Mixes,  though  even  to  Greece  we  run, 

With  every  rill  from  Helicon  ! 

And,  if  this  rage  for  travelling  lasts, 

If  Cockneys,  of  all  sects  and  castes. 

Old  maidens,  aldermen,  and  squires. 

Will  leave  their  puddings  and  coal  fires. 

To  gape  at  things  in  foreign  lands 

No  soul  among  them  understands —  , 

If  Blues  desert  their  coteries. 

To  show  off  'mong  the  Wahabees — 

If  neither  sex  nor  age  controls, 

Nor  fear  of  Mamelukes  forbids 
Young  ladies,  with  pink  parasols. 

To  glide  among  the  pyramids — 
Why,  then,  farewell  all  hope  to  find 
A  spot  that's  free  from  London-kind  ! 
Who  knows,  if  to  the  West  we  roam. 
But  we  may  find  some  Blue  "  at  home  " 

Among  the  Blacks  of  Carolina —  i 

Or,  flying  to  the  Eastward,  see 
Some  Mrs.  Hopkins,  taking  tea 

And  toast  upon  the  Wall  of  China ! 

Thomas  Moore 


108 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


LITERARY  ADVERTISEMENT 

Wanted — Authors  of  all-work,  to  job  for  the  season, 
No  matter  which  party,  so  faithful  to  neither  : — 

Good  hacks,  who,  if  posed  for  a  rhyme  or  a  reason, 
Can  manage,  like  .  .   .  ,  to  do  without  either. 

If  in  gaol,  all  the  better  for  out-o'-door  topics  ; 

Your  gaol  is  for  travellers  a  charming  retreat ; 
They  can  take  a  day's  rule  for  a  trip  to  the  Tropics, 

And  sail  round  the  world,  at  their  ease,  in  the  Fleet. 

For  Dramatists,  too,  the  most  useful  of  schools — 

They    may    study    high    life     in    the    King's    Bench 
community ; 

Aristotle  could  scarce  keep  them  more  ivithin  rules , 

And  oi place  they're  at  least  taught  to  stick  to  the  unity. 

Any  lady  or  gentleman  comes  to  an  age 

'To  have  good  *'  Reminiscences  "  (threescore  or  higher), 
Will  meet  with  encouragement— so  much  per  page. 

And  the  spelling  and  grammar  both  found  by  the  buyer. 

No  matter  with  what  their  remembrance  is  stocked. 
So  they'll  only  remember  the  quantum  desired  ; — 

Enough  to  fill  handsomely  Two  Volumes,  oct., 
Price  twenty-four  shillings,  is  all  that's  required. 

They  may  treat  us,  like  Kelly,  with  old  jeux-d'esprits, 
Like  Reynolds,  may  boast  of  each  mountebank  frolic. 

Or  kindly  inform  us,  like  Madame  Genlis, 

That  gingerbread  cakes  always  give  them  the  colic. 

There's  nothing  at  present  so  popular  growing 
As  your  Autobiographers — fortunate  elves, 

Who  manage  to  know  all  the  best  people  going. 
Without  ever  having  been  heard  of  themselves  ! 

Wanted,  also,  a  new  stock  of  Pamphlets  on  Corn, 

By  ^*  Farmers  "   and   "  Landholders  " — (getnTnen,  whose 
lands 

109 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    CTJ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    C^ 

Enclosed  all  in  bow-pots,  their  attics  adorn, 

Or  whose  share  of  the  soil  may  be  seen  on  their  hands). 

No-Popery  Sermons,  in  ever  so  dull  a  vein. 

Sure  of  a  market ; — should  they,  too,  who  pen  *em. 

Be  renegade  Papists,  like  Murtagh  O'S-11-v-n, 

Something  extra  allowed  for  the  additional  venom. 

Funds,  Physic,  Corn,  Poetry,  Boxing,  Romance, 
All  excellent  subjects  for  turning  a  penny ; — 

To  write  upon  all  is  an  author's  sole  chance 

For  attaining,  at  last,  the  least  knowledge  of  ani/. 

Nine  times  out  of  ten,  if  his  title  be  good. 
His  matter  within  of  small  consequence  is ; — 

Let  him  only  write  fine,  and,  if  not  understood. 
Why — that's  the  concern  of  the  reader,  not  his. 

N.B, — A  learned  Essay,  now  printing,  to  show 
That  Horace  (as  clearly  as  words  could  express  it) 

Was  for  taxing  the  Fundholders,  ages  ago. 

When  he  wrote  thus — ^'  Quodcunque  in  Fund  is,  assess  it.' 

Thomas  Moore 


EPITAPH  ON  A  TUFT-HUNTER 

Lament,  lament.  Sir  Isaac  Heard, 

Put  mourning  round  thy  page,  Debrett, 

For  here  lies  one  who  ne'er  preferred 
A  Viscount  to  a  Marquis  yet. 

Beside  him  place  the  God  of  Wit, 
Before  him  Beauty's  rosiest  girls 

Apollo  for  a  star  he'd  quit. 

And  Love's  own  sister  for  an  Earl's. 
110 


gtj    AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    [^ 
Si    HUMOROUS   VERSE    eIs 

Did  niggard  Fate  no  peers  afford, 

He  took,  of  course,  to  peer's  relations ! 

And  rather  than  not  sport  a  lord. 
Put  up  with  even  the  last  creations. 

Even  Irish  names,  could  he  but  tag  'em 

With  "Lord"  and  "Duke  "  were  sweet  to  call; 

And,  at  a  pitch.  Lord  Ballyraggum 
Was  better  than  no  Lord  at  all. 

Heaven  grant  him  now  some  noble  nook, 

For,  rest  his  soul,  he'd  rather  be 
Genteelly  damned  beside  a  Duke, 

Than  saved  in  vulgar  company. 

Thomas  Moore 


ROBIN  TAMSON'S  SMIDDY 

My  mither  men't  my  auld  breeks, 

An'  wow  !  but  they  were  duddy. 
And  sent  me  to  get  Mally  shod 

At  Robin  Tamson's  smiddy ; 
The  smiddy  stands  beside  the  burn 

That  wimples  through  the  clachan, — 
I  never  gae  by  the  door 

But  aye  I  fa'  a-laughin*. 

For  Robin  was  a  walthy  carle. 

And  had  ae  bonnie  dochter, 
Yet  ne'er  wad  let  her  tak'  a  man. 

Though  mony  lads  had  sought  her; 
And  what  think  ye  o'  my  exploit  ? 

The  time  our  mare  was  shoeing 
I  slippit  up  beside  the  lass. 

An'  briskly  fell  a-wooing. 

An'  aye  she  e'ed  my  auld  breeks 

The  time  that  we  sat  crackin' ; 
Quo'  I,  my  lass,  ne'er  mind  the  clouts, 

I've  new  anes  for  the  makin' ; 

in 


[n?^    K?1    AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^ 
iM    ^    HUMOROUS    VERSE    C2 

But  gin  you'll  just  come  hame  wi'  me, 

An'  lea'  the  carle  your  father, 
Ye'se  get  my  breeks  to  keep  in  trim, 

Mysel'  an'  a'  thegither. 

'Deed,  lad,  quo*  she^  your  offer's  fair, 

I  really  think  I'll  tak'  it, 
Sae  gang  awa*,  get  out  the  mare, 

We'll  baith  slip  on  the  back  o't ; 
For  gin  I  wait  for  my  father's  time, 

I'll  wait  till  I  be  fifty  ; 
But  na,  I'll  marry  in  my  prime. 

An'  mak'  a  wife  fu'  thrifty. 

Wow  !  Robin  was  an  angry  man 

At  tyring  o'  his  dochter, 
Through  a'  the  kintra-side  he  ran. 

An'  far  an'  near  he  sought  her  ; 
But  when  he  cam'  to  our  fire-end. 

An'  fand  us  baith  thegither. 
Quo'  I,  guidman,  I've  ta'en  your  bairn. 

An'  ye  may  tak*  my  mither. 

Auld  Robin  girn'd,  and  sheuk  his  pow, 

Guid  sooth  !  quo'  he,  you're  merry  ; 
Yet  I'll  just  tak'  ye  at  your  word. 

An'  end  this  hurry-burry ; 
So  Robin  an'  our  auld  guid  wife 

Agreed  to  creep  thegither  ; 
Now  I  hae  Robin  Tamson's  bairn, 

An'  Robin  has  my  mither. 

Alexander  Rodger 


112 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  LEGEND  OF  MANOR  HALL 

Old  Farmer  Wall,  of  Manor  Hall, 

To  market  drove  his  wain  : 
Along  the  road  it  went  well  stowed 

With  sacks  of  golden  grain. 

His  station  he  took,  but  in  vain  did  he  look 

For  a  customer  all  the  morn. 
Though  the  farmers  all,  save  Farmer  Wall, 

They  sold  off  all  their  corn. 

Then  home  he  went,  sore  discontent. 

And  many  an  oath  he  swore. 
And  he  kicked  up  rows  with  his  children  and  spouse. 

When  they  met  him  at  the  door. 

Next  market-day  he  drove  away 

To  the  town  his  loaded  wain  : 
The  farmers  all,  save  Farmer  Wall, 

They  sold  off  all  their  grain. 

No  bidder  he  found  and  he  stood  astound 

At  the  close  of  the  market-day. 
When  the  market  was  done,  and  the  chapmen  were  gone 

Each  man  his  several  way. 

He  stalked  by  his  load  along  the  road ; 

His  face  with  wrath  was  red  ; 
His  arms  he  tossed,  like  a  good  man  crossed 

In  seeking  his  daily  bread. 

His  face  was  red,  and  fierce  was  his  tread, 

And  with  lusty  voice  cried  he, 
"  My  corn  I'll  sell  to  the  devil  of  hell. 

If  he'll  my  chapman  be." 

These  words  he  spoke  just  under  an  oak 

Seven  hundred  winters  old ; 
And  he  straight  was  aware  of  a  man  sitting  there 

On  the  roots  and  grassy  mould. 

H  113 


L^    ^    AN  ANTHOLOGY   OF 
3S    E2a    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

The  roots  rose  high,  o'er  the  green-sward  dry. 

And  the  grass  around  was  green, 
Save  just  the  space  of  the  stranger's  place. 

Where  it  seemed  as  fire  had  been. 

All  scorched  was  the  spot,  as  gipsy-pot 

Had  swung  and  bubbled  there  : 
The  grass  was  marred,  the  roots  were  charred, 

And  the  ivy  stems  were  bare. 

The  stranger  up-sprung  :  to  the  farmer  he  flung 

A  loud  and  friendly  hail, 
And  he  said,  '*  I  see  well,  thou  hast  corn  to  sell, 

And  I'll  buy  it  on  the  nail." 

The  twain  in  a  trice  agreed  on  the  price ; 

The  stranger  his  earnest  paid. 
And  with  horses  and  wain  to  come  for  the  grain 

His  own  appointment  made. 

The  farmer  cracked  his  whip  and  tracked 

His  way  right  merrily  on  ; 
He  struck  up  a  song  as  he  trudged  along, 

For  joy  that  his  job  was  done. 

His  children  fair  he  danced  in  the  air; 

His  heart  with  joy  was  big ; 
He  kissed  his  wife ;  he  seized  a  knife. 

He  slew  a  sucking  pig. 

The  faggots  burned,  the  porkling  turned 

And  crackled  before  the  fire ; 
And  an  odour  arose  that  was  sweet  in  the  nose 

Of  a  passing  ghostly  friar. 

He  twirled  at  the  pin,  he  entered  in. 

He  sate  down  at  the  board ; 
The  pig  he  blessed,  when  he  saw  it  well-dressed, 

And  the  humming  ale  out-poured. 
114 


AN  ANTHOLOGYOF    f^    KSl    fSQ    fs?Z 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^    ^    CSJ    y!^ 

The  friar  laughed,  the  friar  quaffed, 

He  chirped  like  a  bird  in  May ; 
The  farmer  told  how  his  com  he  had  sold 

As  he  journeyed  home  that  day. 

The  friar  he  quaffed,  but  no  longer  he  laughed, 

He  changed  from  red  to  pale : 
"Oh,  helpless  elf!  'tis  the  fiend  himself 

To  whom  thou  hast  made  thy  sale  !  " 

The  friar  he  quaffed,  he  took  a  deep  draught ; 

He  crossed  himself  amain : 
''Oh,  slave  of  pelf !  'tis  the  devil  himself 

To  whom  thou  hast  sold  thy  grain  I 

"  And  sure  as  the  day  he'll  fetch  thee  away. 

With  the  corn  which  thou  hast  sold. 
If  thou  let  him  pay  o'er  one  tester  more 

Than  thy  settled  price  in  gold." 

The  farmer  gave  vent  to  a  loud  lament, 

The  wife  to  a  long  outcry  ; 
Their  relish  for  pig  and  ale  had  flown ; 
The  friar  alone  picked  every  bone. 

And  drained  the  flagon  dry. 

The  friar  was  gone ;  the  morning  dawn 

Appeared,  and  the  stranger's  wain 
Came  to  the  hour,  with  six-horse  power. 

To  fetch  the  purchased  grain. 

The  horses  were  black :  on  their  dewy  track 

Light  steam  from  the  ground  upcurled ; 
Long  wreaths  of  smoke  from  their  nostrils  broke, 

And  their  tails  like  torches  whirled. 

More  dark  and  grim,  in  face  and  limb. 

Seemed  the  stranger  than  before, 
As  his  empty  wain,  with  steeds  thrice  twain, 

Drew  up  to  the  farmer's  door. 

115 


^    K2    ^    K^    K3    AN  ANTHOLOGY   OF 
tSa    as    EaB    y^    ESB    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

On  the  stranger's  face  was  a  sly  grimace, 

As  he  seized  the  sacks  of  grain ; 
And,  one  by  one,  till  left  were  none. 

He  tossed  them  on  the  wain. 

And  slyly  he  leered  as  his  hand  up-reared 

A  purse  of  costly  mould. 
Where,  bright  and  fresh,  through  a  silver  mesh. 

Shone  forth  the  glittering  gold. 

The  farmer  held  out  his  right  hand  stout. 

And  drew  it  back  with  dread ; 
For  in  fancy  he  heard  each  warning  word 

The  supping  friar  had  said. 

His  eye  was  set  on  the  silver  net ; 

His  thoughts  were  in  fearful  strife ; 
When,  sudden  as  fate,  the  glittering  bait 

Was  snatched  by  his  loving  wife. 

And,  swift  as  thought,  the  stranger  caught 

The  farmer  his  waist  around, 
And  at  once  the  twain  and  the  loaded  wain 

Sank  through  the  rifted  ground. 

The  gable-end  wall  of  Manor  Hall 

Fell  in  ruins  on  the  place : 
That  stone-heap  old  the  tale  has  told 

To  each  succeeding  race. 

The  wife  gave  a  cry  that  rent  the  sky 

At  her  goodman's  downward  flight : 
But  she  held  the  purse  fast,  and  a  glance  she  cast 

To  see  that  all  was  right. 

'Twas  the  fiend's  full  pay  for  her  goodman  grey, 

And  the  gold  was  good  and  true  ; 
Which  made  her  declare,  that  '^  his  dealings  were  fair. 

To  give  the  devil  his  due." 
116 


Oj    AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF    Rj;^    K2q    fCT    RT^ 
cSa    HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^    ^    tS    ^ 

She  wore  the  black  pall  for  Farmer  Wall, 

From  her  fond  embraces  riven : 
But  she  won  the  vows  of  a  younger  spouse 

With  the  gold  which  the  fiend  had  given. 

Now,  farmers,  beware  what  oaths  you  swear 

When  you  cannot  sell  your  corn ; 
Lest,  to  bid  and  buy,  a  stranger  be  nigh. 

With  hidden  tail  and  horn. 

And  with  good  heed,  the  moral  a-read. 

Which  is  of  this  tale  the  pith, —  » 

If  your  corn  you  sell  to  the  fiend  of  hell. 
You  may  sell  yourself  therewith. 

And  if  by  mishap  you  fall  in  the  trap. 

Would  you  bring  the  fiend  to  shame, 
Lest  the  tempting  prize  should  dazzle  her  eyes. 

Lock  up  your  frugal  dame. 

Thomas  Love  Peacock 


i^i 


WRITTExN  AFTER  SWIMMING  FROM 
SESTOS  TO  ABYDOS 

If,  in  the  month  of  dark  December, 

Leander,  who  was  nightly  wont 
(What  maid  will  not  the  tale  remember  ?) 

To  cross  thy  stream,  broad  Hellespont ! 

If,  when  the  wintry  tempest  roar'd. 

He  sped  to  Hero,  nothing  loath. 
And  thus  of  old  thy  current  pour'd. 

Fair  Venus  !  how  I  pity  both  ! 

117 


AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

For  me,  degenerate  modern  wretch. 

Though  in  the  genial  month  of  May, 
My  dripping  limbs  I  faintly  stretch. 

And  think  I've  done  a  feat  to-day. 

But  since  he  cross'd  the  rapid  tide, 

According  to  the  doubtful  story. 
To  woo — and — Lord  knows  what  beside, 

And  swam  for  Love,  as  I  for  Glory ; 

'Twere  hard  to  say  who  fared  the  best : 

Sad  mortals !  thus  the  Gods  still  plague  you  ! 

He  lost  his  labour,  I  my  jest ; 

For  he  was  drowned,  and  I've  the  ague. 

Lord  Byron 


CAUTIONARY  VERSES  TO  YOUTH  OF 
BOTH  SEXES 

My  little  dears,  who  learn  to  read,  pray,  early  learn  to 

shun 
That  very  silly  thing  indeed,  which  people  call  a  pun : 
Read  Entick's  rules,  and  'twill  be  found  how  simple  an 

offence 
It  is,  to  make  the  self-same  sound  afford  a  double  sense. 

For  instance,  ale  may  make  you  ail,  your  aunt  an  ant  may 

kill. 
You  in  a  vale  may  buy  a  veil  and  Bill  may  pay  the  hill. 
Or  if  to  France  your  bark  you  steer,  at  Dover,  it  may  be, 
A  peer  appears  upon  the  pier,  who,  blind,  still  goes  to  sea. 

Thus  one  might  say,  when  to  a  treat,  good  friends  accept 

our  greeting, 
'Tis  meet  that  men  who  meet  to  eat  should  eat  their  meat 

when  meeting. 
Braun  on  the  board's  no  bore  indeed,  although  from  boar 

prepared ; 
Nor  can  the  fowl,  on  which  we  feed,  foul  feeding  be 

declared. 
118 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    m 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    HS 

Thus  one  ripe  fruit  may  be  a  pearj  and  yet  be  pared  again. 
And  still  be  one,  which  seemeth  rare,  until  we  do  explain. 
It  therefore  should  be  all  your  aim  to  speak  with  ample 

care  : 
For  who,  however  fond  of  game,  would  choose  to  swallow 

hair  f 

A  fat  man's  gait  may  make  us  smile,  who  has  no  gate  to 

close ; 
The  farmer  sitting  on  his  stifle  no  stylish  person  knows. 
Perfumers  men  of  scents  must  be ;  some  Scilli/  men  are 

bright ; 
A  bronm  man   oft   deep  read  we   see,  a  black  a  wicked 

tvigkt. 

Most   wealthy  men   good   manors  have,  however   vulgar 

they; 
And  actors  still  the  harder  slave  the  oftener  they  plai/ : 
So  poets  can't  the  baize  obtain,  unless  their  tailors  choose ; 
While  grooms  and  coachmen,  not  in  vain,  each  evening 

seek  the  Mews. 

The  di/er  who  by  di/ing  lives,  a  dire  life  maintains ; 

The  glazier,  it  is  known,  receives — his  profits  from  his 

panes : 
By  gardeners  thi/me  is  tied,  'tis  true  when  spring  is  in  its 

prime ; 
But  time  or  tide  won't  wait  for  you,  if  you  are  tied  for  time. 

Then  now  you  see,  my  little  dears,  the  way  to  make  a  pun ; 
A    trick    which     you,    through     coming    years,    should 

sedulously  shun. 
The  fault  admits  of  no  defence  :  for  wheresoe'er  'tis  found. 
You  sacrifice  the  sound  for  sense  :  the  sense  is  never  sound. 

So  let  your  words  and  actions  too,  one  single  meaning  prove. 
And,  just  in  all  you  say  or  do,  you'll  gain  esteem  and 

love. 
In  mirth  and  play  no  harm  you'll  know,  when  duty's  taste 

is  done ; 
But  parents  ne'er  should  let  you  go  unpunish'd  for  a  pun  I 

Theodore  Hook 

119 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


CLUBS 

If  any  man  loves  comfort  and  has  little  cash  to  buy  it,  he 
Should  get  into  a  crowded  club — a  most  select  society ; 
While  solitude  and  mutton-cutlets  serve  infelix  uxor,  he 
May  have  his  club   (like  Hercules)  and   revel   there   in 
luxury. 

Yes,  Clubs  knock  taverns  on  the  head!    e'en  Hatchett's 

can't  demolish  them ; 
Joy  grieves   to   see  their  magnitude,  and   Long  longs  to 

abolish  them. 
The  Inns  are  out !  hotels  for  single  men  scarce  keep  alive 

on  it. 
While  none  but  houses  that  are  in  the  Family  way  thrive 

on  it ! 

There's  first  the  Athenaeum  club,  so  wise,  there's  not  a 

man  of  it 
That  has  not  sense  enough  for  six  (in  fact,  that  is  the  plan 

of  it) : 
The  very  waiters  answer  you  with  eloquence  Socratical, 
And    always    place    the    knives    and     forks    in    order 

mathematical. 

Then  opposite  the  mental  club  you'll  find  the  regimental 

one, 
A  meeting  made  of  men  of  war,  and  yet  a  very  gentle  one ; 
If  uniform  good  living  please  your  palate,  here's  excess 

of  it, 
Especially  at  private  dinners^  when  they  make  a  mess  of  it  ! 

E'en  Isis  has  a  house  in  Town !    and  Cam  abandons  her 

city! 
The  Master  now  hangs  out  at  the  United  University 
In  Common  Room  she  gave  a  route !  (a  novel  freak  to  hit 

upon) 
W^here  Masters  gave  the  Mistresses  of  Arts  no  chairs  to  sit 

upon. 
120 


^    AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF 
CSi    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

The  Union  Club  is  quite  superb — its  best  apartment  daily  is 
The   lounge   of  lawyers,  doctors,  merchants,  beaux  cum 

multis  aliis : 
At  half-past  six,  the  joint  concern,  for  eighteen  pence,  is 

given  you — 
Half-pints  of  port  are  sent  in  ketchup  bottles  to  enliven 

you! 

The  travellers  are  in  Pall  Mall,  and  smoke  cigars  so  cosily. 
And  dream  they  climb  the  highest  Alps,  or  rove  the  plains 

of  Moselai ; 
The  world  for  them  has  nothing  new,  they  have  explor'd 

all  parts  of  it. 
And  now  they  are  club-footed  I  and  they  sit  and  look  at 

charts  of  it. 

The  Orientals  homeward  bound,  now  seek  their  clubs  much 

sallower. 
And  while  they  eat  green  fat,  they  find   their  own  fat 

growing  yellower : 
Their   soup   is   made   more   savoury,  till  bile   to   shadows 

dwindles  'em. 
And    Messrs.   Savory  and  Moore  with    seidlitz    draughts 

rekindles  'em. 

There  are  clubs  where  persons  Parliamentary  preponderate. 
And  clubs  for  men  upon  the  turf — (I  wonder  they  aren't 

under  it) — 
Clubs  where  the  winning  ways  of  sharper  folks  pervert  the 

use  of  clubs. 
Where  knaves  will  make  subscribers  cry,  "Egad,  this  is 

the  deuce  of  clubs." 

For  country  Squires   the   only  club   in   London  now,  is 

Boodle's,  sir, 
The  Crockford  club  for  playful  men,  the  Alfred  club  for 

noodles,  sir ; 
These  are  the  stages  which  all  men  propose  to  play  their 

parts  upon. 
For  clubs  are  what  the  Londoners  have  clearly  set  their 

hearts  upon.  Theodore  Hook 

in 


AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


MR.  BARNEY  MAGUIRE'S  ACCOUNT  OF 
THE  CORONATION 

Air:  "  The  Groves  of  Blarney.'* 

OcH  !  the  Coronation  !  what  celebration 

For  emulation  can  with  it  compare  ? 
When  to  Westminster  the  Royal  Spinster, 

And  the  Duke  of  Leinster,  all  in  order  did  repair ! 
*Twas  there  you'd  see  the  New  Polishemen 

Making  a  skrimmage  at  half  after  four, 
And  the  Lords  and  Ladies,  and  the  Miss  O'Gradys 

All  standing  round  before  the  Abbey  door. 

Their  pillows  scorning,  that  self-same  morning. 

Themselves  adorning,  all  by  the  candle-light, 
With  roses  and  lilies,  and  daffy-down-dillies, 

And  gould  and  jewels,  and  rich  di'monds  bright. 
And  then  approaches  five  hundred  coaches, 

W^ith  General  Dullbeak. — Och  !  'twas  mighty  fine 
To  see  how  asy  bould  Corporal  Casey, 

With  his  sword  drawn,  prancing  made  them  kape  the  line. 

Then  the  Guns'  alarums,  and  the  King  of  Arums, 

All  in  his  Garters  and  his  Clarence  shoes, 
Opening  the  massy  doors  to  the  bould  Ambassydors. 

The  Prince  of  Potboys,  and  great  haythen  Jews ; 
'Twould  have  made  you  crazy  to  see  Esterhazy 

All  jools  from  his  jasey  to  his  di'mond  boots. 
With  Alderman  Harmer  and  that  swate  charmer, 

The  famale  heiress.  Miss  Anja-ly  Coutts. 

And  Wellington,  walking  with  his  sword  drawn,  talking 

To  Hill  and  Hardinge,  haroes  of  great  fame  : 
And  Sir  de  Lacy,  and  the  Duke  Dalmasey, 

(They  call'd  him  Sowlt  afore  he  changed  his  name,) 
Themselves  presading  Lord  Melbourne,  lading 

The  Queen,  the  darling,  to  her  royal  chair. 
And  that  fine  ould  fellow  the  Duke  of  Pell-Mello, 

The  Queen  of  Portingal's  Chargy-de-fair. 
122 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Then  the  Noble  Prussians,  likewise  the  Russians, 

In  fine  laced  jackets  with  their  goulden  cufFs, 
And  the  Bavarians,  and  the  proud  Hungarians, 

And  Every thingarians  all  in  furs  and  muffs. 
Then  Misthur  Spaker,  with  Misthur  Pays  the  Quaker, 

All  in  the  Gallery  you  might  persave ; 
But  Lord  Brougham  was  missing,  and  gone  a-fishing, 

Ounly  crass  Lord  Essex  would  not  give  him  lave. 

There  was  Baron  Alten  himself  exalting, 

And  Prince  von  Schwartzenberg,  and  many  more, 
Och !  I'd  be  bother  d,  and  entirely  smother'd 

To  tell  the  half  of 'em  was  to  the  fore ; 
With  the  swate  Peeresses  in  their  crowns  and  dresses. 

And  Aldermanesses,  and  the  Boord  of  Works ; 
But  Mehemet  Ali  said,  quite  gintaly, 

"  I'd  be  proud  to  see  the  likes  among  the  Turks  ! " 

Then  the  Queen,  Heaven  bless  her !  och  !  they  did  dress 
her 

In  her  purple  garaments  and  her  goulden  crown ; 
Like  Venus  or  Hebe,  or  the  Queen  of  Sheby, 

With  eight  young  ladies  houlding  up  her  gown. 
Sure  'twas  grand  to  see  her,  also  for  to  he-ar 

The  big  drums  bating,  and  the  trumpets  blow. 
And  Sir  George  Smart !     Oh  !  he  played  a  consarto. 

With  his  four-and-twenty  fiddlers  all  in  a  row ! 

Then  the  Lord  Archbishop  held  a  goulden  dish  up. 

For  to  resave  her  bounty  and  great  wealth. 
Saying,  "  Plase  your  Glory,  great  Queen  Vic-tory ! 

Ye'll  give  the  Clargy  lave  to  dhrink  your  health  !'* 
Then  his  Riverence  retrating,  discoorsed  the  mating  ; 

"  Boys  !  Here's  your  Queen  !  deny  it  if  you  can  I 
And  if  any  bould  traitour,  or  infarior  craythur. 

Sneezes  at  that,  I'd  like  to  see  the  man  I  '* 

Then  the  Nobles  kneeling  to  the  Pow'rs  appealing, 
"  Heaven  send  your  Majesty  a  glorious  reign  !  " 

And  Sir  Claudius  Hunter  he  did  confront  her, 
All  in  his  scarlet  gown  and  goulden  chain. 


^    S3    fS    R3    ^    AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^\ 

cSi  as  ES  ^  eS  humorous  verse  c^ 

The  great  Lord  May'r,  too,  sat  in  his  chair,  too. 

But  mighty  sarious,  looking  fit  to  cry. 
For  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  all  in  his  hurry. 

Throwing  the  thirteens,  hit  him  in  the  eye. 

Then  there  was  preaching,  and  good  store  of  speeching, 

With  Dukes  and  Marquises  on  bended  knee : 
And  they  did  splash  her  with  raal  Macasshur, 

And  the  Queen  said,  ^^  Ah  I  then  thank  ye  all  for  me  ! " 
Then  the  trumpets  braying,  and  the  organ  playing, 

And  sweet  trombones,  with  their  silver  tones  ; 
But  Lord  Rolle  was  rolling  ; — 'twas  mighty  consoling 

To  think  his  Lordship  did  not  break  his  bones  ! 

Then  the  crames  and  custard,  and  the  beef  and  mustard 

All  on  the  tombstones  like  a  poultherer's  shop ; 
With  lobsters  and  white-bait,  and  other  swate-meats. 

And  wine  and  nagus,  and  Imperial  Pop ! 
There  was  cakes  and  apples  in  all  the  Chapels, 

With  fine  polonies  and  rich  mellow  pears, — 
Och  !  the  Count  Von  Strogonoff,  sure  he  got  prog  enough. 

The  sly  ould  Divil,  undernathe  the  stairs. 

Then  the  cannons  thunder'd,  and  the  people  wonder'd, 

Crying,  *^  God  save  Victoria,  our  Royal  Queen !  " — 
— Och  !  if  myself  should  live  to  be  a  hundred. 

Sure  it's  the  proudest  day  that  I'll  have  seen  ! 
And  now  I've  ended,  what  I  pretended. 

This  narration  splendid  in  swate  poe-thry. 
Ye  dear  bewitcher,  just  hand  the  pitcher. 

Faith,  it's  myself  that's  getting  mighty  dhry. 

Richard  Harris  Barham 

(^'Thomas  Ingoldsby  ") 


124 


AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  JACKDAW  OF  RHEIMS 

The  Jackdaw  sat  on  the  Cardinal's  chair ! 
Bishop  and  abbot  and  prior  were  there ; 

Many  a  monk^  and  many  a  friar. 

Many  a  knight,  and  many  a  squire. 
With  a  great  many  more  of  lesser  degree, — 
In  sooth  a  goodly  company ; 
And  they  served  the  Lord  Primate  on  bended  knee. 

Never,  I  ween.  Was  a  prouder  seen. 

Read  of  in  books,  or  dreamt  of  in  dreams, 
Than  the  Cardinal  Lord  Archbishop  of  Rheims. 

In  and  out  Through  the  motley  rout. 

That  little  Jackdaw  kept  hopping  about ; 

Here  and  there  Like  a  dog  in  a  fair, 

Over  comfits  and  cakes.  And  dishes  and  plates. 

Cowl  and  cope,  and  rochet,  and  pall, 
Mitre  and  crosier !  he  hopp'd  upon  all ! 

With  saucy  air.  He  perch'd  on  the  chair 

Where,  in  state,  the  great  Lord  Cardinal  sat 
In  the  great  Lord  Cardinal's  great  red  hat ; 

And  he  peer'd  in  the  face  Of  his  Lordship's 

Grace, 
With  a  satisfied  look,  as  if  he  would  say, 
"  We  two  are  the  greatest  folks  here  to-day  !  ** 

And  the  priests,  with   awe,  As  such  freaks 

they  saw. 
Said,  "  The  Devil  must  be  in  that  little  Jackdaw." 

The  feast  was  over,  the  board  was  clear'd. 
The  flawns  and  the  custards  had  all  disappear'd. 
And  six  little  Singing-boys, — dear  little  souls  ! 
In  nice  clean  faces,  and  nice  white  stoles. 

Came,  in  order  due.  Two  by  two 

Marching  that  great  refectory  through  ! 
A  nice  little  boy  held  a  golden  ewer, 
Emboss'd  and  fiU'd  with  water,  as  pure 
As  any  that  flows  between  Rheims  and  Namur, 

125 


AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


Which  a  nice  little  boy  stood  ready  to  catch 
In  a  fine  golden  hand-basin  made  to  match. 
Two  nice  little  boys,  rather  more  grown, 
Carried  lavender-water,  and  eau  de  Cologne, 
And  a  nice  little  boy  had  a  nice  cake  of  soap, 
Worthy  of  washing  the  hands  of  the  Pope. 

One  little  boy  more  A  napkin  bore. 

Of  the  best  white  diaper,  fringed  with  pink, 
And  a  Cardinal's  Hat  mark'd  in  "  permanent  ink." 

The  great  Lord  Cardinal  turns  at  the  sight 
Of  these  nice  little  boys  dress'd  all  in  white  : 

From  his  finger  he  draws  His  costly  turquoise ; 

And,  not  thinking  at  all  about  little  Jackdaws, 

Deposits  it  straight  By  the  side  of  his  plate. 

While  the  nice  little  boys  on  his  Eminence  wait ; 
Till,  when  nobody's  dreaming  of  any  such  thing. 
That  little  Jackdaw  hops  off  with  the  ring ! 


There's  a  cry  and  a  shout.  And  a  deuce  of  a 

rout, 
And  nobody  seems  to  know  what  they're  about, 
But  the  monks  have  their  pockets  all  tum'd  inside  out ; 

The  friars  are   kneeling.  And  hunting,  and 

feeling 
The  carpet,  the  floor,  and  the  walls,  and  the  ceiling. 

The  Cardinal    drew  Off  each   plum-colour'd 

shoe. 
And  left  his  red  stockings  exposed  to  the  view ; 

He  peeps  and  he  feels  In  the  toes  and  the 

heels ; 
They  turn  up  the  dishes, — they  turn  up  the  plates, — 
They  take  up  the  poker  and  poke  out  the  grates, 

— They  turn  up  the  rugs,  They  examine  the 

mugs : — 
But  no  ! — no  such  thing  ;  — They  can't  find 

THE  RING  ! 

And  the  Abbot  declared  that,  "  when  nobody  twigg'd  it. 
Some  rascal  or  other  had  popp'd  in  and  prigg'd  it !  " 
126 


OS    AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF    R^    RTl    ^    Pv?7] 
tSJ    HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^    ^    C^    ^1^ 

The  Cardinal  rose  with  a  dignified  look. 

He  call'd  for  his  candle,  his  bell,  and  his  book  ! 

In  holy  anger  and  pious  grief. 

He  solemnly  cursed  that  rascally  thief! 

He  cursed  him  at  board,  he  cursed  him  in  bed ; 

From  the  sole  of  his  foot  to  the  crown  of  his  head  ; 

He  cursed  him  in  sleeping,  that  every  night 

He  should  dream  of  the  devil,  and  wake  in  a  fright ; 

He  cursed  him  in  eating,  he  cursed  him  in  drinking, 

He  cursed  him  in  coughing,  in  sneezing,  in  winking ; 

He  cursed  him  in  sitting,  in  standing,  in  lying ; 

He  cursed  him  in  walkin^i^,  in  riding,  in  flying. 

He  cursed  him  in  living,  he  cursed  him  dying ! — 
Never  was  heard  such  a  terrible  curse  ! 

But  what  gave  rise  To  no  little  surprise, 

Nobody  seem'd  one  penny  the  worse  ! 

The  day  was  gone.  The  night  came  on. 

The  Monks  and  the  Friars  they  search'd  till  dawn ; 

When  the  sacristan  saw,  On  crumpled  claw, 

Come  limping  a  poor  little  lame  Jackdaw  ! 

No  longer  gay,  As  on  yesterday ; 

His  feathers  all  seem'd  to  be  turn'd  the  wrong  way ; — 
His  pinions  droop'd — he  could  hardly  stand, — 
His  head  was  as  bald  as  the  palm  of  your  hand ; 

His  eye  so  dim.  So  wasted  each  limb. 

That,  heedless  of  grammar,  they  all  cried  "  That's  him  ! — 
That's  the  scamp  that  has  done  this  scandalous  thing! 
That's  the  thief  that  has  got  my  Lord  Cardinal's  Ring ! " 

The  poor  little  Jackdaw,  When  the  monks  he 

saw. 
Feebly  gave  vent  to  the  ghost  of  a  caw ; 
And  turn'd  his  bald  head,  as  much  as  to  say ; 
*'  Pray  be  so  good  as  to  walk  this  way  !  " 

Slower  and  slower  He  limped  on  before. 

Till  they  came  to  the  back  of  the  belfry  door. 

Where  the  first  thing  they  saw,  'Midst  the 

sticks  and  the  straw. 
Was  the  ring  in  the  nest  of  that  little  Jackdaw ! 

127 


AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^3 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ISi 

Then  the  great  Lord  Cardinal  call'd  for  his  book, 
And  off  that  terrible  curse  he  took  ; 

The     mute     expression  Served    in    lieu    of 

confession, 
And,  being  thus  coupled  with  full  restitution, 
The  Jackdaw  got  plenary  absolution ! 

— When  those  words  were  heard.  That  poor 

little  bird 
Was  so  changed  in  a  moment,  'twas  really  absurd. 

He  grew  sleek,  and  fat,  In  addition  to  that, 

A  fresh  crop  of  feathers  came  thick  as  a  mat ! 

His  tail  waggled  more  Even  than  before ; 

But  no  longer  it  wagged  with  an  impudent  air. 
No  longer  he  perch'd  on  the  Cardinal's  chair. 

He  hopp'd  now  about  With  a  gait  devout ; 

At  Matins,  at  Vespers,  he  never  was  out ; 
And,  so  far  from  any  more  pilfering  deeds. 
He  always  seem'd  telling  the  Confessor's  beads. 
If  any  one  lied, — or  if  any  one  swore, — 
Or  slumber'd  in  prayer- time  and  happen'd  to  snore. 

That   good    Jackdaw,  Would    give    a    great 

"Caw," 
As  much  as  to  say,  "  Don't  do  so  any  more !  " 
While  many  remark'd,  as  his  manners  they  saw. 
That  they  *^' never  had  known  such  a  pious  Jackdaw  ! " 

He  long  lived  the  pride  Of  that  country  side. 

And  at  last  in  the  odour  of  sanctity  died  ; 

When,  as  words  were  too  faint.  His  merits  to 

paint, 
The  Conclave  determined  to  make  him  a  Saint ; 
And  on  newly-made  Saints  and  Popes,  as  you  know. 
It's  the  custom,  at  Rome,  new  names  to  bestow. 
So  they  canonized  him  by  the  name  of  Jim  Crow. 
Richard  Harris  Barham 

("Thomas  Ingoldsby  ") 


128 


AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS  VERSE 


MISADVENTURES  AT  MARGATE 

A    LEGEND    OF    JARVIs's    JETTY 

Mr.  Simpkinson  (loquitur) 

'TwAS  in  Margate  last  July,  I  walk'd  upon  the  pier, 

I  saw  a  little  vulgar  Boy — I  said,  "  What  make  you  here  ? 

The  gloom  upon  your  youthful  cheek  speaks  anything  but 

joy;" 

Again   I  said,  "  What   make  you  here,  you   little  vulgar 
Boy  ?  '* 

He  frown'd,  that  little  vulgar  Boy — he   deem'd  I  meant 

to  scoff — 
And  when  the  little  heart  is  big,  a  little  "  sets  it  off." 
He  put  his  finger  in  his  mouth,  his  little  bosom  rose, — 
He  had  no  little  handkerchief  to  wipe  his  little  nose  ! — 

*'  Hark  !    don't  you   hear,  my  little   man  ? — it's  striking 

Nine,"  I  said, 
"  An  hour  when  all  good  little  boys  and  girls  should  be  in 

bed. 
Run  home  and  get  your  supper,  else  your  Ma'  will  scold 

—Oh  !  fie ! 
It's  very  wrong  indeed  for  little  boys  to  stand  and  cry  ! " 

The  tear-drop  in  his  little  eye  again  began  to  spring. 

His  bosom  tiirobb'd  with  agony, — he  cried  like  anything  I 

I  stooped,  and  thus  amidst  his  sobs  I  heard  him  murmur 

—"Ah! 
I  haven't  got  no  supper  !  and  I  haven't  got  no  Ma'  !  ! — 

**  My  father,  he  is  on  the  seas — my  mother's  dead  and  gone  ! 
And  I  am  here,  on  this  here  pier,  to  roam  the  world  alone ; 
I  have  not  had,  this  live-long  day,  one  drop  to  cheer  my 

heart, 
Nor  '  brown '  to  buy  a  bit  of  bread  with, — let  alone  a  tart. 

"  If  there's  a  soul  will  give  me  food,  or  find  me  in  employ. 
By  day  or  night,  then  blow  me  tight ! "  (he  was  a  vulgar 
Boy;) 

I  129 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

"And  now  I'm  here,  from  this  here  pier  it  is  my  fixed 

intent 
To  jump,  as  Mister  Levi  did  from  off  the  Monu-ment !  " 

"  Cheer  up !  Cheer  up  !  my  little  man — cheer  up,"  I  kindly 

said, 
"  You  are  a  naughty  boy  to  take  such  things  into  your 

head  : 
If  you  should  jump  from  off  the  pier,  you'd  surely  break 

your  legs, 
Perhaps  your  neck — then  Bogey'd  have  you,  sure  as  eggs 

are  eggs  ! 

'*  Come  home  with  me,  my  little  man,  come  home  with  me 

and  sup ; 
My  landlady  is  Mrs.  Jones — we  must  not  keep  her  up — 
There's  roast  potatoes  at  the  fire, — enough    for   me  and 

you — 
Come  home,  you  little  vulgar  Boy — I  lodge  at  Number  2." 

I  took  him  home  to  Number  2,  the  house  beside  "The 

Foy"; 
I  bade  him  wipe  his  dirty  shoes, — that  little  vulgar  Boy, — 
And  then  I  said  to  Mistress  Jones,  the  kindest  of  her  sex, 
"  Pray  be  so  good  as  go  and  fetch  a  pint  of  double  X." 

But  Mrs.  Jones  was  rather  cross,  she  made  a  little  noise. 
She  said  she  **  did  not  like  to  wait  on  little  vulgar  Boys." 
She  with  her  apron  wiped  the  plates,  and  as  she  rubbed 

the  delf 
Said  I  might  "  go  to  Jericho,  and  fetch  my  beer  myself !  '* 

I  did  not  go  to  Jericho — I  went  to  Mr.  Cobb  * 

I  changed  a  shilling — (which  in  town  the  people  call  '*  a 

Bob")— 
It  was  not  so  much  for  myself  as  for  that  vulgar  child — 
And  I  said,  "  A  pint  of  double  X,  and  please  to  draw  it 

mild!"— 

*  Qui  facit  per  alium,  facit  per  se. — Deem  not,  gentle  stranger, 
that  Mr.  Cobb  is  a  petty  dealer  and  chapman,  as  Mr.  Simpkinson 
would  here  seem  to  imply.     He  is  a  niaker^  not  a  retailer  of  Stingo, 
— and  mighty  pretty  tipple  he  makes, 
ISO 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    K7Z 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    HH 

When  I  came  back  I  gazed  about — I  gazed  on  stool  and 

chair — 
I  could  not  see  my  little  friend — because  he  was  not  there  ! 
I  peep'd  beneath  the  table-cloth — beneath  the  sofa  too — 
I  said, "  You  little  vulgar  Boy !  why  what's  become  of  you  ?  " 

I  could  not  see  my  table-spoons — I  look'd,  but  could  not 

see 
The  little  fiddle-pattern'd  ones  I  use  when  I'm  at  tea ; 
— I  could  not  see  my  sugar-tongs — my  silver  watch — oh, 

dear  I 
I  know  'twas  on  the  mantelpiece  when  I  went  out  for 

beer. 

I  could  not  see  my  Mackintosh — it  was  not  to  be  seen  ! — 
Nor  yet  my  best  white  beaver  hat,  broad-brimm'd  and  lined 

with  green ; 
My  carpet-bag — my  cruet-stand,  that  holds  my  sauce  and 

soy,-— 
My  roast  potatoes  ! — all  are  gone  !  and  so's  that  vulgar  Boy  ! 

I  rang  the  bell  for  Mrs.  Jones,  for  she  was  down  below, 
"  Oh,  Mrs.  Jones  !  what  do  you  think  } — ain't  this  a  pretty 

go?— 
— That  horrid   little  vulgar   Boy  whom    I   brought   here 

to-night, 
— He's  stolen  my  things  and  run  away ! !  "  says  she,  ''  And 

sarve  you  right !  ! " 

Next  morning  I  was  up  betimes — I  sent  the  Crier  round. 
All  with   his   bell  and  gold-laced  hat,  to  say  I'd  give  a 

pound 
To  find  that  little  vulgar  Boy,  who'd  gone  and  used  me  so ; 
But  when  the  Crier  cried,  "  O  yes !  "   the  people  cried, 

"  O  no !  " 

I  went  to  "  Jarvis'  Landing-place,''  the  glory  of  the  town, 
There  was  a  common  Sailor-man  a- walking  up  and  down, 
I  told  my  tale — he  seem'd  to  think  I'd  not  been  treated 

well, 
And  called  me  "  Poor  old  Buffer !  " — what  that  means  I 

cannot  tell. 

131 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    raj 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    Ca 

That  Sailor-man  he  said  he'd  seen  that  morning  on  the 

shore, 
A  son  of — something — 'twas  a  name  I'd  never  heard  before, 
A  httle  '^  gallows-looking  chap  " — dear  me  ;  what  could  he 

mean  ? 
With    a   "  carpet- swab "  and  *^  muckingtogs,"  and   a   hat 

turned  up  with  green. 

He  spoke  about  his  "  precious  eyes,"  and  said  he'd  seen 

him  '^  sheer," 
— It's  very  odd  that  Sailor-men  should  talk  so  very  queer — 
And  then  he  hitch'd  his  trousers  up,  as  is,  I'm  told,  their 

use, 
— It's  very  odd  that  Sailor-men  should  wear  those  things 

so  loose. 

I  did  not  understand  him  well,  but  I  think  he  meant  to 

say 
He'd  seen  that  little  vulgar  Boy,  that  morning  swim  away 
In  Captain  Large's  Royal  George,  about  an  hour  before, 
And  they  were  now,  as  he  supposed, "  som^wheres  "  about 

the  Nore. 

A  landsman  said,  '•  I  twig  the  chap— he's  been  upon  the 

Mill-^ 
And  'cause  he  gammons  so  the  ftatSy  ve  calls  him  Veeping 

Bill! 
He  said,  "  he'd  done  me  wery  brown,"  and  nicely  "  stowd 

the  srvag^'* 
— That's  French,  I  fancy,  for  a  hat— or  else  a  carpet-bag. 

I  went  and  told  the  constable  my  property  to  track ; 
He  ask'd  me  if  "  I  did  not  wish  that  1  might  get  it  back  }  " 
I  answered,  "  To  be  sure  I  do — it's  what  I'm  come  about ; 
He  smiled  and  said,  "  Sir,  does  your  mother  know  that  you 
are  out  ?  " 

Not  knowing  what  to  do,  I  thought  Fd  hasten  back  to 

town. 
And  beg  our  own   Lord  Mayor  to  catch  the  Boy  who'd 

'*  done  me  brown." 
132 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    fj^ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^ 

His  Lordship  very  kindly  said  he'd  try  and  find  him  out. 
But  he  rather  thought  that  there  were  several  vulgar  boys 
about. 

He  sent  for  Mr.  Withair  then,  and  I  describ'd  "  the  swag," 
My  Macintosh,  my  sugar-tongs,  my  spoons  and  carpet-bag  ; 
He  promised  that  the  New  Police  should  all  their  powers 

employ  ! 
But  never  to  this  hour  have  I  beheld  that  vulgar  Boy ! 


Moral. 

Remember,  then,  what  when  a  boy  I've  heard  my  Grandma* 

tell, 
"  Be  warn'd  in  time  by  others'  harm,  and  you  shall  do 

full  well  !  " 
Don't  link  yourself  with  vulgar  folks,  who've  got  no  fixed 

abode. 
Tell  lies,  use  naughty  words,  and  say  ''  they  wish  they  may 

be  blow'd ! " 

Don't  take  too  much  of  double  X  ! — and  don't  at  night 

go  out 
To  fetch  your  beer  yourself,  but  make  the  pot-boy  bring 

your  stout ! 
And  when  you  go  to  Margate  next,  just  stop,  and  ring  the 

bell. 
Give  my  respects  to  Mrs.  Jones,  and  say  I'm  pretty  well ! 
Richard  Harris  Barham 

("  Thomas  Ingoldsby  ") 


J§?slBs^i' 


I9S 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


VERSES  ON  A  CAT 


A  CAT  in  distress, 

Nothing  more  nor  less ; 
Good  folks,  I  must  faithfully  tell  ye. 

As  I  am  a  sinner, 

It  waits  for  some  dinner 
To  stuff  out  its  own  little  belly. 

You  would  not  easily  guess 

All  the  modes  of  distress 
Which  torture  the  tenants  of  earth ; 

And  the  various  evils. 

Which  like  so  many  devils. 
Attend  the  poor  souls  from  their  birth. 

Some  a  living  require, 

And  others  desire 
An  old  fellow  out  of  the  way ; 

And  which  is  the  best 

I  leave  to  be  guessed. 
For  I  cannot  pretend  to  say. 

One  wants  society, 

Another  variety. 
Others  a  tranquil  life  ; 

Some  want  food. 

Others,  as  good. 
Only  want  a  wife. 

But  this  poor  little  cat 

Only  wanted  a  rat, 
To  stuff  out  its  own  little  maw ; 

And  it  were  as  good 

Some  people  had  such  food. 
To  make  them  hold  their  jaw  ! 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


184 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  MAN  WITH  A  TUFT 


I  EVER  at  college 

From  commoners  shrank, 
Still  craving  the  knowledge 

Of  people  of  rank  : 
In  my  glass  my  lord's  ticket 

1  eagerly  stuffed  ; 
And  all  called  me  '*  Riquet," 

The  man  with  the  Tuft. 

My  patron !  most  noble  ! 

Of  highest  degree  I 
Thou  never  canst  probe  all 

My  homage  for  thee  ! 
Thy  hand— oh  !  I'd  lick  it. 

Though  often  rebuffd ; 
And  still  I  am  "  Riquet/' 

The  man  with  the  Tuft  ! 

Too  oft  the  great,  shutting 

Their  doors  on  the  bold. 
Do  deeds  that  are  cutting. 

Say  words  that  are  cold  ! 
Through  flattery's  wicket 

My  body  I've  stuffd. 
And  so  I  am  ''  Riquet," 

The  man  with  the  Tuft  ! 

His  lordship's  a  poet. 

Enraptured  I  sit ; 
He's  dull — (and  I  know  it) — 

/  call  him  a  wit ! 
His  fancy,  I  nick  it. 

By  me  he  is  pufTd, 
And  still  I  am  "  Riquet,** 

The  man  with  the  Tuft  ! 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly 


185 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  BOY  AT.  THE  NORE 

"Alone  I  did  it  I — Boy  1 " — Coriolanus 

I  SAY,  little  Boy  at  the  Nore, 

Do  you  come  from  the  small  Isle  of  Man  ? 
Why,  your  history  a  mystery  must  be, — 

Come  tell  us  as  much  as  you  can. 

Little  Boy  at  the  Nore  ! 

You  live,  it  seems,  wholly  on  water. 

Which  your  Gambler  calls  living  in  clover ; — 

But  how  comes  it,  if  that  is  the  case. 
You're  eternally  half  seas  over, 

Little  Boy  at  the  Nore  ? 

While  you  ride — while  you  dance — while  you  float- 
Never  mind  your  imperfect  orthography  ; — 

But  give  us  as  well  as  you  can. 
Your  watery  auto-biography, 

Little  Boy  at  the  Nore ! 

Little  Boy  at  the  Nore  (loquitur) 

I'm  the  tight  little  Boy  at  the  Nore, 

In  a  sort  of  sea-negus  I  dwells. 
Half  and  half  'twixt  salt  water  and  port ; 

I'm  reckoned  the  first  of  the  swells — 

I'm  the  Boy  at  the  Nore  ! 

I  lives  with  my  toes  to  the  flounders. 

And  watches  through  long  days  and  nights ; 

Yet,  cruelly  eager,  men  look — 

To  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  my  lights — 

I'm  the  Boy  at  the  Nore  ! 

I  never  gets  cold  in  the  head, 

So  my  life  on  salt  water  is  sweet ; 
I  think  I  owes  much  of  my  health 
To  being  well  used  to  wet  feet — 

As  the  Boy  at  the  Nore  ! 
136 


AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

There's  one  thing,  I'm  never  in  debt — 
Nay  !     I  liquidates  more  than  I  oughter; 

So  the  man  to  beat  Cits  as  goes  by. 
In  keeping  the  head  above  water. 

Is  the  Boy  at  the  Nore  ! 

I've  seen  a  good  deal  of  distress, 

Lots  of  breakers  in  Ocean's  Gazette  ; 
They  should  do  as  I  do — rise  o'er  all, 

Ay,  a  good  floating  capital  get. 

Like  the  Boy  at  the  Nore  ' 

I'm  a'ter  the  sailor's  own  heart, 

And  cheers  him,  in  deep  water  rolling ; 

And  the  friend  of  all  friends  to  Jack  Junk, 
Ben  Backstay,  Tom  Pipes,  and  Tom  Bowling, 
Is  the  Boy  at  the  Nore  ! 

Could  I  e'er  grow  up,  I'd  be  off 

For  a  week  to  make  love  with  my  wheedles ; 
If  the  tight  little  Boy  at  the  Nore 

Could  but  catch  a  nice  girl  at  the  Needles, 

We'd  have  two  at  the  Nore. 

They  thinks  little  of  sizes  on  water, 

On  big  waves  the  tiny  one  skulks — 
While  the  river  has  men-of-war  on  it — 

Yes — the  Thames  is  oppressed  with  great  hulks. 

And  the  Boy's  at  the  Nore ! 

But  I've  done — for  the  water  is  heaving 

Round  my  body  as  though  it  would  sink  it ! 
And  I've  been  so  long  pitching  and  tossing. 
That  sea-sick — you'd  hardly  now  think  it — 

Is  the  Boy  at  the  Nore  ! 

Thomas  Hood 


137 


AN  ANTHOLOGY    OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


A  FEW  LINES  ON  COMPLETING 
FORTY-SEVEN 

When  I  reflect,  with  serious  sense, 
While  years  and  years  run  on. 

How  soon  I  may  be  summoned  hence — 
There's  cook  a-calHng  John. 

Our  hves  are  built  so  frail  and  poor. 
On  sand,  and  not  on  rocks. 

We're  hourly  standing  at  Death's  door— 
There's  some  one  double-knocks. 

All  human  days  have  settled  terms, 
Our  fates  we  cannot  force ; 

This  flesh  of  mine  will  feed  the  worms — 
They're  come  to  lunch,  of  course. 

And  when  my  body's  turned  to  clay. 

And  dear  friends  hear  my  knell. 
Oh,  let  them  give  a  sigh  and  say — 
I  hear  the  upstairs  bell. 

Thomas  Hood 


PM  NOT  A  SINGLE  MAN 

Double,  single,  and  the  rub, — Hoyle 
This,  this  is  Solitude. — BvftoN 

Well,  I  confess,  I  did  not  guess 

A  simple  marriage  vow 
Would  make  me  find  all  women-kind 
Such  unkind  women  now  ! 
They  need  not,  sure,  as  distant  be 

As  Java  or  Japan, — 
Yet  every  Miss  reminds  me  this — 

I'm  not  a  single  man ! 
138 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    fj^    K^    ^3 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    iM    ^    (^ 

Once  they  made  choice  of  my  bass  voice 

To  share  in  each  duet ; 
So  well  I  danced,  I  somehow  chanced 

To  stand  in  every  set : 
They  now  declare  I  cannot  sing. 

And  dance  on  Bruin's  plan ; 
Me  draw  ! — me  paint ! — me  any  thing  ! — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

Once  I  was  asked  advice,  and  asked 

What  works  to  buy  or  not. 
And  **  would  I  read  that  passage  out 

I  so  admired  in  Scott  ? " 
They  then  could  bear  to  hear  one  read ; 

But  if  I  now  began. 
How  they  would  snub,  "  My  pretty  page," — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

One  used  to  stitch  a  collar  then, 

Another  hemmed  a  frill ; 
I  had  more  purses  netted  then 

Than  I  could  hope  to  fill, 
I  once  could  get  a  button  on. 

But  now  I  never  can — 
My  buttons  then  were  Bachelor's — 

I'm  not  a  single  man ! 

Oh,  how  they  hated  politics 

Thrust  on  me  by  papa  : 
But  now  my  chat — they  all  leave  that 

To  entertain  mamma. 
Mamma,  who  praises  her  own  self. 

Instead  of  Jane  or  Ann, 
And  lays  "her  girls"  upon  the  shelf — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

Ah  me,  how  strange  it  is  the  change. 

In  parlour  and  in  hall. 
They  treat  me  so,  if  I  but  go 

To  make  a  morning  call, 

189 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

If  they  had  hair  in  papers  once. 

Bolt  up  the  stairs  they  ran ; 
They  now  sit  still  in  dishabille — 

I'm  not  a  single  man ! 

Miss  Mary  Bond  was  once  so  fond 

Of  Romans  and  of  Greeks ; 
She  daily  sought  my  cabinet 

To  study  my  antiques. 
Well,  now  she  doesn't  care  a  dump 

For  ancient  pot  or  pan. 
Her  taste  at  once  is  modernized — 

I'm  not  a  single  man ! 

My  spouse  is  fond  of  homely  life. 

And  all  that  sort  of  thing ; 
I  go  to  balls  without  my  wife. 

And  never  wear  a  ring : 
And  yet  each  Miss  to  whom  I  come. 

As  strange  as  Genghis  Khan, 
Knows  by  some  sign,  I  can't  divine — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  !  < 

Go  where  I  will,  I  but  intrude, 

I'm  left  in  crowded  rooms. 
Like  Zimmerman  on  Solitude, 

Or  Hervey  at  his  Tombs. 
From  head  to  heel,  they  make  me  feel 

Of  quite  another  clan  ; 
Compelled  to  own  though  left  alone — 
^   I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

Miss  Towne  the  toast,  though  she  can  boast 

A  nose  of  Roman  line. 
Will  turn  up  even  that  in  scorn 

At  compliments  of  mine  : 
She  should  have  seen  that  I  have  been 

Her  sex's  partisan. 
And  really  married  all  I  could — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 
140 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    R^    ^3    ^ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^^    ^    CSJ 

'Tis  hard  to  see  how  others  fare. 

Whilst  I  rejected  stand, — 
Will  no  one  take  my  arm  because 

They  cannot  have  my  hand  ? 
Miss  Parry,  that  for  some  would  go 

A  trip  to  Hindostan, 
With  me  don't  care  to  mount  a  stair — 

I'm  not  a  single  man ! 

Some  change,  of  course,  should  be  in  force, 

But,  surely,  not  so  much — 
There  may  be  hands  I  may  not  squeeze. 

But  must  I  never  touch  ? 
Must  I  forbear  to  hand  a  chair 

And  not  pick  up  a  fan  ? 
But  I  have  been  myself  picked  up — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

Others  may  hint  a  lady's  tint 

Is  purest  red  and  white — 
May  say  her  eyes  are  like  the  skies 

So  very  blue  and  bright — 
/  must  not  say  that  she  has  eyes. 

Or  if  I  so  began, 
I  have  my  fears  about  my  ears — 

I'm  not  a  single  man ! 

I  must  confess  I  did  not  guess 

A  simple  marriage  vow. 
Would  make  me  find  all  women-kind 

Such  unkind  women  now  ; 
I  might  be  hashed  to  death,  or  smashed. 

By  Mr.  Pickford's  van. 
Without,  I  fear,  a  single  tear — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  I 

Thomas  Hood 


14] 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  MOTl^O 

"  The  Admiral  compelled  them  all  to  strike.'' — 

Life  of  Nelson 

Hush  !  silence  in  school — not  a  noise  ! 
You  soon  shall  see  there's  nothing  to  jeer  at, 
Master  Marsh,  most  audacious  of  boys  ! 
Come  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !  " 

So  this  morn  in  the  midst  of  the  Psalm 
The  Miss  SiflPkins's  school  you  must  leer  at, 
You're  complained  of — sir  I  hold  out  your  palm — 
There ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !  " 

You  wilful  young  rebel  and  dunce ! 
This  offence  all  your  sins  shall  appear  at, 
You  shall  have  a  good  caning  at  once — 
There  ! — '^  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat ! " 

You  are  backward,  you  know,  in  each  verb. 
And  your  pronouns  you  are  not  more  clear  at. 
But  you're  forward  enough  to  disturb — 
There ! — *'  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferati  " 

You  said  Master  Twig  stole  the  plums, 
When  the  orchard  he  never  was  near  at, 
I'll  not  punish  wrong  fingers  or  thumbs — 
There ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat ! " 

You  make  Master  Taylor  your  butt, 
And  this  morning  his  face  you  threw  beer  at. 
And  you  struck  him — do  you  like  a  cut  ? 
There ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !  " 

Little  Biddle  you  likewise  distress. 
You  are  always  his  hair  or  his  ear  at — 
He's  my  Opt,  sir,  and  you  are  my  Pess : 
There  ! — '^  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat ' " 
142 


2S    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^^ 
Zi    HUMOROUS    VERSE    tsi 

Then  you  had  a  pitched  fight  with  young  Rouse, 
An  offence  I  am  always  severe  at ! 
You  discredit  to  Cicero  house  ! 
There  ! — *'  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !  " 

You  have  made  too  a  plot  in  the  night. 
To  run  off  from  the  school  that  you  rear  at ! 
Come,  your  other  hand,  now,  sir — the  right 
There  I — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat  I  " 

I'll  teach  you  to  draw,  you  young  dog  ! 
Such  pictures  as  I'm  looking  here  at ! 
*'  Old  Mounseer  making  soup  of  a  frog," 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat ! " 

You  have  run  up  a  bill  at  a  shop, 
That  in  paying  you'll  be  a  whole  year  at — 
You've  but  twopence  a  week,  sir,  to  stop  ! 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !  " 

Then  at  dinner  you're  quite  cock-a-hoop. 
And  the  soup  you  are  certain  to  sneer  at — 
I  have  sipped  it — it's  very  good  soup — 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !  " 

T'other  day  when  I  fell  o'er  the  form, 
Was  my  tumble  a  thing,  sir,  to  cheer  at  ? 
Well  for  you  that  my  temper's  not  warm — 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat ! " 

Why,  you  rascal !  you  insolent  brat ! 
All  my  talking  you  don't  shed  a  tear  at. 
There — take  that,  sir,  and  that !  that !  and  that ! 
There  ! — ''  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat  I " 

Thomas  Hood 


148 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


JOHN  TROT 


John  Trot  he  was  as  tall  a  lad 

As  York  did  ever  rear — 
As  his  dear  Granny  used  to  say. 

He'd  make  a  grenadier. 

A  sergeant  soon  came  down  to  York, 

With  ribbons  and  a  frill : 
My  lads,  said  he,  let  broadcast  be 

And  come  away  to  drill. 

But  when  he  wanted  John  to  'list. 

In  war  he  saw  no  fun, 
Where  what  is  called  a  raw  recruit 

Gets  often  over-done. 

Let  others  carry  guns,  said  he, 

And  go  to  war's  alarms. 
But  I  have  got  a  shoulder-knot 

Imposed  upon  my  arms. 

For  John  he  had  a  footman's  place 

To  wait  on  Lady  Wye — 
She  was  a  dumpy  woman,  tho' 

Her  family  was  high. 

Now  when  two  years  had  passed  away, 

Her  lord  took  very  ill. 
And  left  her  to  her  widowhood, 

Of  course  more  dumpy  still. 

Said  John,  I  am  a  proper  man. 

And  very  tall  to  see ; 
Who  knows,  but  now  her  lord  is  low. 

She  may  look  up  at  me  ^ 

A  cunning  woman  told  me  once. 
Such  fortune  would  turn  up ; 

She  was  a  kind  of  sorceress. 
But  studied  in  a  cup ! 
144 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

So  he  walked  up  to  Lady  Wye, 

And  took  her  quite  amazed, — 
She  thought,  tho'  John  was  tall  enough. 

He  wanted  to  be  raised. 

But  John — for  why  ?  she  was  a  dame 

Of  such  a  dwarfish  sort — 
Had  only  come  to  bid  her  make 

Her  mourning  very  short. 

Said  he,  your  lord  is  dead  and  cold. 

You  only  cry  in  vain  ; 
Not  all  the  cries  of  London  now 

Could  call  him  back  again ! 

You'll  soon  have  many  a  noble  beau, 

To  dry  your  noble  tears — 
But  just  consider  this,  that  I 

Have  followed  you  for  years. 

And  tho'  you  are  above  me  far, 

What  matters  high  degree, 
When  you  are  only  four  foot  nine. 

And  I  am  six  foot  three  ! 

For  though  you  are  of  lofty  race, 

And  I'm  a  low-born  elf; 
Yet  none  among  your  friends  could  say, 

You  matched  beneath  yourself. 

Said  she,  such  insolence  as  this 

Can  be  no  common  case  ; 
Tho'  you  are  in  my  service,  sir. 

Your  love  is  out  of  place. 

O  Lady  Wye  !  O  Lady  Wye  ! 

Consider  what  you  do ; 
How  can  you  be  so  short  with  me, 

I  am  not  so  with  you  ! 

K  145 


^    KJl    ^    K?1    AN  ANTHOLOGY   OF 
la    E38    HS    E3B    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Then  ringing  for  her  serving  men. 

They  showed  him  to  the  door ; 
Said  they,  you  turn  out  better  now. 

Why  didn't  you  before  ? 

They  stripped  his  coat,  and  gave  him  kicks 

For  all  his  wages  due, 
And  off,  instead  of  green  and  gold. 

He  went  in  black  and  blue. 

No  family  would  take  him  in. 

Because  of  his  discharge ; 
So  he  made  up  his  mind  to  serve, 

The  country  all  at  large. 

Huzza  !  the  sergeant  cried,  and  put 

The  money  in  his  hand, 
And  with  a  shilling  cut  him  off 

From  his  paternal  land. 

For  when  his  regiment  went  to  fight 

At  Saragossa  town, 
A  Frenchman  thought  he  looked  too  tall 

And  so  he  cut  him  down. 

Thomas  Hood 


THE  DEMON  SHIP 

'TwAs  off  the  Wash — the  sun  went  down — the  sea  looked 

black  and  grim, 
For  stormy  clouds,  with  murky  fleece,  were  mustering  at 

the  brim ; 
Titanic  shades  I  enormous  gloom  I — as  if  the  solid  night 
Of  Erebus  rose  suddenly  to  seize  upon  the  light ! 
It  was  a  time  for  mariners  to  bear  a  wary  eye. 
With  such  a  dark  conspiracy  between  the  sea  and  sky ! 
146 


rai    AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF    f^ 

(Sj  humorous  verse  ^ 

Down  went  my  helm — close  reefed — the  tack  held  freely 

in  my  hand — 
With   ballast   snug — I   put   about,   and  scudded  for  the 

land. 
Loud  hissed  the  sea  beneath  her  lea — my  little  boat  flew 

fast. 
But  faster  still  the  rushing  storm  came  borne  upon  the 

blast. 
Lord !    what    a    roaring    hurricane    beset    the    straining 

sail ! 
What  furious  sleet,  with  level  drift,  and  fierce  assaults 

of  hail ! 
What   darksome   caverns   yawned   before !    what    jagged 

steeps  behind ! 
Like   battle -steeds,  with   foamy   manes,    wild   tossing   in 

the  wind. 
Each   after    each    sank   down   astern,   exhausted   in    the 

chase. 
But    where    it    sank   another   rose   and   galloped   in   its 

place ; 
As    black    as    night — they   turned    to    white,    and  cast 

against  the  cloud 
A   snowy  sheet,    as    if   each    surge   upturned   a   sailor's 

shroud  : 
Still   flew   my   boat;  alas!  alas!  her   course   was   nearly 

run ! 
Behold   yon   fatal    billow   rise — ten    billows    heaped    in 

one ! 
With  fearful  speed  the  dreary  mass  came  rolling,  rolling, 

fast. 
As    if  the  scooping    sea    contained    one    only  wave    at 

last! 
Still   on   it   came,   with    horrid    roar,    a    swift    pursuing 

grave ; 
It  seemed  as  if  some  cloud  had  turned  its  hugeness  to 

a  wave ! 
It's  briny  sleet  began  to  beat  beforehand  in  my  face — 
I   felt  the  rearward   keel   begin   to   climb   its   swelling 

base  1 

147 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

I  saw  its  alpine  hoary  head  impending  over  mine  ! 
Another  pulse — and   down   it   rushed — an   avalanche    of 

brine ! 
Brief  pause  had  I,  on  God  to  cry,  or  think  of  wife  and 

home; 
The   waters   closed — and   when   I    shrieked,    1    shrieked 

below  the  foam ! 
Beyond  that  rush  I  have  no  hint  of  any  after  deed — 
For  I  was  tossing  on  the  waste,  as  senseless  as  a  weed. 

•  •  •  •  • 

"Where  am  I? — in  the  breathing  world,  or  in  the  world 

of  death  ?  " 
With  sharp  and  sudden  pang    I    drew  another  birth  of 

breath ; 
My  eyes  drank  in  a  doubtful  light,  my  ears  a  doubtful 

sound — 
And   was   that   ship    a    real  ship   whose   tackle   seemed 

around  ? 
A  moon,  as  if  the  earthly  moon,  was  shining  up  aloft ; 
But  were  those  beams  the  very  beams  that  I  had  seen 

so  oft  ? 
A  face,  that  mocked  the  human  face,  before  me  watched 

alone ; 
But  were  those  eyes  the  eyes  of  man  that  looked  against 

my  own  ? 

Oh,    never    may   the    moon    again    disclose   me   such   a 

sight 
As  met  my  gaze,  when  first  I  looked,  on  that  accursed 

night ! 
I've    seen    a    thousand    horrid    shapes    begot    of   fierce 

extremes 
Of  fever;    and    most   frightful   things   have   haunted   in 

my  dreams — 
Hyenas — cats — blood-loving  bats — and  apes  with  hateful 

stare — 
Pernicious  snakes,  and   shaggy  bulls — the   lion   and   the 

she-bear — 
148 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    fv?^    RiTl    ^    fN?;^    KJ^ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^Is    ESS    CSi    ^3    ^ 

Strong    enemies,   with    Judas    looks,    of    treachery   and 

spite — 
Detested  features,  hardly  dimmed,  and  banished  by  the 

light ! 
Pale-sheeted    ghosts,   with    gory   locks,   upstarting   from 

their  tombs — 
All  phantasies  and  images  that  flit  in  midnight  glooms — 
Hags,    goblins,    demons,    lemures,    have    made    me    all 

aghast, — 
But  nothing  like  that  grimly  one  who  stood  before  the 

mast ! 

His  cheek  was  black — his  brow  was  black — his  eyes  and 

hair  as  dark : 
His   hand    was   black,   and   where   it  touched,  it   left  a 

sable  mark; 
His   throat  was   black,  his  vest  the  same,  and,  when  I 

looked  beneath. 
His   breast   was   black — all,   all   was    black,   except    his 

grinning  teeth. 
His  sooty  crew  were  like  in  hue,  as  black  as  Afric  slaves  I 
Oh,  horror!  e'en  the  ship  was  black  that  ploughed  the 

inky  waves ! 

"Alas!"  I  cried,  "for  love  of  truth  and  blessed  mercy's 

sake ! 
Where  am  I  ?  in  what  dreadful  ship  ?  upon  what  dreadful 

lake  ? 
What   shape   is   that    so   very   grim,    and    black   as   any 

coal  ? 
It   is   Mahound,  the  Evil   One,  and  he  has  gained  my 

soul ! 
Oh,  mother  dear !  my  tender  nurse !  dear  meadows  that 

beguiled 
My  happy  days,  when  I  was  yet  a  little  sinless  child, — 
My  mother  dear — my  native  fields,  I  never  more  shall  see 
I'm  sailing  in  the  Devil's  Ship  upon  the  Devil's  Sea ! " 

Loud  laughed  that  Sable  Mariner,  and  loudly  in  return 
His  sooty  crew  sent  forth  a  laugh  that  rang  from  stem 
to  stern — 

149 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


A  dozen  pair  of  grimly  cheeks  were  crumpled  on  the 

nonce — 
As  many  sets  of  grinning  teeth  came  shining  out  at  once ; 
A  dozen  gloomy  shapes  at  once  enjoyed  the  merry  fit, 
With  shriek  and  yell,  and  oaths  as  well,  like  Demons  of 

the  Fit. 
They  crowed  their  fill,  and  then  the  Chief  made  answer 

for  the  whole ; — 
"Our  skins/'   said  he,    "are  black,  ye  see,  because  we 

carry  coal ; 
You'll  find  your  mother  sure  enough,  and  see  your  native 

fields — 
For  this  here  ship  has  picked  you  up — the  Mary  Ann 

of  Shields!" 

Thomas  Hood 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL-ROOM 

^^  11  faut  juger  des  femmes  depuis  la  chmis»ure  jtuqu'd  la  coiffure 
excltuiivemejit,  a  peu  pres  coimne  on  mesure  le  pouion  entre  queue  et 
tite.—hA  Bbuyere. 

Years — years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams 

Had  been  of  being  wise  or  witty, — 
Ere  I  had  done  with  writing  themes. 

Or  yawned  o'er  this  infernal  Chitty ; — 
Years — ^years  ago — while  all  my  joy 

Was  in  my  fowling-piece  and  filly, — 
In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 

I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lily. 

I  saw  her  at  the  County  Ball : 

There,  when  the  sounds  of  flute  and  fiddle 
Gave  signal  sweet  in  that  old  hall 

Of  hands  across,  and  down  the  middle, 
150 


W    AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    RJ^    jOT    ^    fv 
a    HUMOROUS    VERSE    es    Ks    CSi    fe 

Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 

Of  all  that  set  young  hearts  romancing ; 

She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our  star ; 

And  then  she  danced — O  Heaven,  her  "  dancing  "  ! 

Dark  was  her  hair,  her  hand  was  white ; 

Her  voice  was  exquisitely  tender ; 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  liquid  light ; 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender ! 
Her  every  look,  her  every  smile. 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows ; 
I  thought  'twas  Venus  from  her  isle. 

And  wondered  where  she'd  left  her  sparrows. 

She  talked — of  politics  or  prayers, — 

Of  Southey's  prose  or  Wordsworth's  sonnets, — 
Of  danglers — or  of  dancing  bears. 

Of  battles — or  the  last  new  bonnets, 
By  candlelight,  at  twelve  o'clock. 

To  me  it  mattered  not  a  little ; 
If  those  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke, 

I  might  have  thought  they  murmured  Little. 

Through  sunny  May,  through  sultry  June, 

I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal ;  « 

I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 

I  wrote  them  to  the  Sunday  Journal: 
My  mother  laughed ;  I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling : 
My  father  frowned ;  but  how  should  gout 

See  any  happiness  in  kneeling  ? 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  Dean, 

Rich,  fat,  and  rather  apoplectic  ; 
She  had  one  brother,  just  thirteen, 

Whose  colour  was  extremely  hectic  ; 
Her  grandmother  for  many  a  year 

Had  fed  the  parish  with  her  bounty  ; 
Her  second  cousin  was  a  peer. 

And  Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  County. 


151 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

But  titles,  and  the  three  per  cents., 

And  mortgages,  and  great  relations, 
And  India  bonds,  and  tithes,  and  rents. 

Oh  what  are  they  to  love's  sensations  ? 
Black  eyes,  fair  forehead,  clustering  locks — 

Such  wealth,  such  honours,  Cupid  chooses ; 
He  cares  as  little  for  the  Stocks, 

As  Baron  Rothschild  for  the  Muses. 

She  sketched  ;  the  vale,  the  wood,  the  beach, 

Grew  lovelier  from  her  pencil's  shading : 
She  botanized ;  I  envied  each 

Young  blossom  in  her  boudoir  fading : 
She  warbled  Handel ;  it  was  grand  ; 

She  made  the  Catalani  jealous  : 
She  touched  the  organ ;  I  could  stand 

For  hours  and  hours  to  blow  the  bellows. 

She  kept  an  album,  too,  at  home. 

Well  filled  with  all  an  album's  glories ; 
Paintings  of  butterflies,  and  Rome, 

Patterns  for  trimmings,  Persian  stories  ; 
Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo. 

Fierce  odes  to  Famine  and  to  Slaughter. 
And  autographs  of  Prince  Leboo, 

And  recipes  for  elder-water. 

And  she  was  flattered,  worshipped,  bored  ; 

Her  steps  were  watched,  her  dress  was  noted. 
Her  poodle  dog  was  quite  adored, 

Her  sayings  were  extremely  quoted  ; 
She  laughed,  and  every  heart  was  glad. 

As  if  the  taxes  were  abolished  ; 
She  frowned,  and  every  look  was  sad, 

As  if  the  Opera  w  ere  demolished. 

She  smiled  on  many,  just  for  fun, — 
I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  it  : 

I  was  the  first — the  only  one 

Her  heart  had  thought  of  for  a  minute. — 
152 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    pT^    j^    ra]    fsJT; 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    HS    ^    C^    ^SS 

I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so, 

In  phrase  which  was  divinely  moulded ; 

She  wrote  a  charming  hand, — and  oh  ! 
How  sweetly  all  her  notes  were  folded  ! 

Our  love  was  like  most  other  loves ; — 

A  little  glow,  a  little  shiver, 
A  rose-bud,  and  a  pair  of  gloves, 

And  "  Fly  not  yet  " — upon  the  river  ; 
Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  heir, 

Some  hopes  of  dying  broken-hearted, 
A  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair, 

The  usual  vows, — and  then  we  parted. 

We  parted  ;  months  and  years  rolled  by  ; 

We  met  again  four  summers  after : 
Our  parting  was  all  sob  and  sigh  ; 

Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laughter : 
For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers ; 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-room's  Belle, 

But  only — Mrs.  Something  Rogers  ! 

WiNTHROP    MaCKWORTH    PrAED 


153 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


MY  PARTNER 

"  There  is,  perhaps,  no  subject  of  more  universal  interest 
in  the  whole  range  of  natural  knowledge,  than  that  of  the 
unceasing  fluctuations  which  take  place  in  the  atmosphere 
in  which  we  are  immersed." — British  Almanack. 

At  Cheltenham^  where  one  drinks  one's  fill 

Of  folly  and  cold  water, 
I  danced  last  year  my  first  quadrille 

With  old  Sir  Geoffrey's  daughter. 
Her  cheek  with  Summer's  rose  might  vie, 

When  Summer's  rose  is  newest ; 
Her  eyes  were  blue  as  autumn's  sky, 

When  autumn's  sky  is  bluest; 
And  well  my  heart  might  deem  her  one 

Of  life's  most  precious  flowers, 
For  half  her  thoughts  were  of  its  sun. 

And  half  were  of  its  showers. 

I  spoke  of  Novels  : "  Vivian  Grey  " 

Was  positively  charming, 
And  "  Almack's  "  infinitely  gay. 

And  "  Frankenstein  "  alarming ; 
I  said  "  De  Vere  "  was  chastely  told, 

Thought  well  of  "  Herbert  Lacy," 
Called  Mr.  Banim's  sketches  "  bold," 

And  Lady  Morgan's  ^^racy," 
I  vowed  that  last  new  thing  of  Hook's 

Was  vastly  entertaining : 
And  Laura  said — "  I  doat  on  books. 

Because  it's  always  raining  !  " 

I  talked  of  Music's  gorgeous  fane  ; 

I  raved  about  Rossini, 
Hoped  Ronzi  would  come  back  again. 

And  criticised  Pacini ; 
I  wished  the  chorus — singers  dumb. 

The  trumpets  more  pacific, 
And  eulogised  Brocard's  aplomb, 

And  voted  Paul  "  terrific  "  ! 
154 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    fC?:;^    PWl    fOE 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    laS    ^    C& 

What  cared  she  for  Medea's  pride, 

Or  Desdemona's  sorrow  ? 
''  Alas  !  "  My  beauteous  listener  sighed, 

"  We  must  have  rain  to  morrow  !  " 

I  told  her  tales  of  other  lands  ; 

Of  ever  boiling  fountains. 
Of  poisonous  lakes  and  barren  sands. 

Vast  forests,  trackless  mountains  : 
I  painted  bright  Italian  skies, 

I  lauded  Persian  roses. 
Coined  similes  for  Spanish  eyes. 

And  jests  for  Indian  noses  : 
I  laughed  at  Lisbon's  love  of  mass, 

Vienna's  dread  of  treason  : 
And  Laura  asked  me — where  the  glass. 

Stood,  at  Madrid,  last  season. 

I  broached  whate'er  had  gone  its  rounds 

The  week  before  of  scandal ; 
What  made  Sir  Luke  lay  down  his  hounds. 

And  Jane  take  up  her  Handel ; 
Why  Julia  walked  upon  the  heath, 

With  the  pale  moon  above  her ; 
Where  Flora  lost  her  false  front  teeth. 

And  Anne  her  falser  lover ; 
How  Lord  de  B.  and  Mrs  L. 

Had  crossed  the  sea  together  ; 
My  shuddering  partner  cried  "  0  del ! 

How  could  they  in  such  weather  ?  " 

Was  she  a  Blue  ?  I  put  my  trust 

In  strata,  petals,  gases ; 
A  boudoir-pedant  ?  I  discussed 

The  toga  and  the  fasces ; 
A  Cockney- Muse  ?  I  mouthed  a  deal 

Of  folly  from  Endymion  ; 
A  Saint  ?  I  praised  the  pious  zeal  « 

Of  Messrs.  Way  and  Simeon ; 

155 


PK    K3    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
^S    ^3d    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

A  politician  ? — it  was  vain 

To  quote  tlie  morning  paper  ; 
The  horrid  phantoms  came  again. 

Rain,  Hail,  and  Snow,  and  Vapour. 

Flattery  was  my  only  chance  : 

I  acted  deep  devotion. 
Found  magic  in  her  every  glance, 

Grace  in  her  every  motion. 
I  wasted  all  a  stripling's  lore. 

Prayer,  passion,  folly,  feeling  ; 
And  wildly  looked  upon  the  floor. 

And  wildly  on  the  ceiling. 
I  envied  gloves  upon  her  arm 

And  shawls  upon  her  shoulder ; 
And,  when  my  worship  was  most  warm, — 

She — "never  found  it  colder." 

I  don't  object  to  wealth  or  land ; 

And  she  will  have  the  giving 
Of  an  extremely  pretty  hand. 

Some  thousand^,  and  a  living. 
She  makes  silk  purses,  broiders  stools. 

Sings  sweetly,  dances  finely. 
Paints  screens,  subscribes  to  Sunday-Schools, 

And  sits  a  horse  divinely. 
But  to  be  linked  for  life  to  her ! — 

The  desperate  man  who  tried  it 
Might  marry  a  Barometer 

And  hang  himself  beside  it ! 

WlNTHROP    MaCKWORTH    PrAED 


156 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


MARRIAGE 

What,  what  is  Marriage  ?     Harris,  Priscian, 

Assist  me  with  a  definition. — 

''  Oh  !  "  cries  a  charming  silly  fool, 

Emerging  from  her  boarding-school — 

"  Marriage  is — love  without  disguises, 

It  is  a — something  that  arises 

From  raptures  and  from  stolen  glances, 

To  be  the  end  of  all  romances  ; 

Vows — quarrels — moonshine — babes — but  hush  ! 

i  mustn't  have  you  see  me  blush." 

"  Pshaw  !  '*  says  a  modern  modish  wife, 

"  Marriage  is  splendour,  fashion,  life  ; 

A  house  in  town,  and  villa  shady. 

Balls,  diamond  bracelets,  and  '  my  lady  ' ; 

Then  for  finale,  angry  words, 

'  Some  people's' — '  obstinate's ' — '  absurd's !  * 

And  peevish  hearts,  and  silly  heads, 

And  oaths,  and  *  betes,'  and  separate  beds." 

An  aged  batchelor,  whose  life 
Has  just  been  sweetened  with  a  wife. 
Tells  out  the  latest  grievance  thus : 
"  Marriage  is — odd  !  for  one  of  us 
'Tis  worse  a  mile  than  rope  or  tree. 
Hemlock,  or  sword,  or  slavery ; 
An  end  at  once  to  all  our  ways. 
Dismission  to  the  one-horse  chaise ; 
Adieu  to  Sunday  can,  and  pig. 
Adieu  to  wine,  and  whist,  and  wig ; 
Our  friends  turn  out, — our  wife's  clapt  in  ; 
*Tis  '  exit  Crony,' — *  enter  Captain.' 
Then  hurry  in  a  thousand  thorns, — 
Quarrels,  and  compliments, — and  horns. 
This  is  the  yoke,  and  I  must  wear  it ; 
Marriage  is — hell,  or  something  near  it !  " 

157 


D0    fra    R3    K3    AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    g 
as    EaS    HS    E3b    HUMOROUS    VERSE    IS 

"Why,  marriage,"  says  an  exquisite. 
Sick  from  the  supper  of  last  night, 
"  Marriage  is — after  one  by  me ! 
I  promised  Tom  to  ride  at  three. 
Marriage  is — 'gad  !  I'm  rather  late. 
La  Fleur ! — my  stays !  and  chocolate  ! — 
Marriage  is — really,  though,  'twas  hard 
To  lose  a  thousand  on  a  card  ; 
Sink  the  old  Duchess ! — three  revokes ! 
'Gad  !  I  must  fell  the  Abbey  Oaks : 
Mary  has  lost  a  thousand  more ! — 
Marriage  is — 'gad  !  a  cursed  bore  I " 

Hymen,  who  hears  the  blockheads  groan. 

Rises  indignant  from  his  throne. 

And  mocks  their  self-reviling  tears. 

And  whispers  thus  in  Folly's  ears : 

"  O  frivolous  of  heart  and  head  I 

If  strifes  infest  your  nuptial  bed. 

Not  Hymen's  hand,  but  guilt  and  sin. 

Fashion  and  folly,  force  them  in ; 

If  on  your  couch  is  seated  Care, 

I  did  not  bring  the  scoffer  there ; 

If  Hymen's  torch  is  feebler  grown. 

The  hand  that  quenched  it  was  your  own ; 

And  what  I  am,  unthinking  elves. 

Ye  all  have  made  me  for  yourselves  ! " 

WiNTHROP    MaCKWORTH    FrAED 


158 


^    AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    KJ^    jOT    ^ 
CSi    HUMOROUS    VERSE    eI^    ^    C^ 

GOOD  DRY  LODGINGS 

ACCORDING   TO    BERANGEB,    SONGSTER 

My  dwelling  is  ample. 

And  I've  set  an  example 
For  all  lovers  of  wine  to  follow  ; 

If  my  home  you  should  ask, 

I  have  drain'd  out  a  cask, 
And  I  dwell  in  the  fragrant  hollow  ! 
A  disciple  am  I  of  Diogenes — 
O  !  his  tub  a  most  classical  lodging  is  ! 
'Tis  a  beautiful  alcove  for  thinking  ; 
'Tis,  besides,  a  cool  grotto  for  drinking : 
Moreover,  the  parish  throughout 
You  can  readily  roll  it  about. 

O  the  berth 

For  a  lover  of  mirth 
To  revel  in  jokes,  and  to  lodge  in  ease. 
Is  the  classical  tub  of  Diogenes ! 

In  politics  I'm  no  adept, 
And  into  my  tub  when  I've  crept, 
They  may  canvas  in  vain  for  my  vote. 
For  besides,  after  all  the  great  cry  and  hubbub. 
Reform  gave  no  "  ten-pound  franchise  "  to  my  tub  ; 

So  your  "  bill  "  I  don't  value  a  groat ! 
And  as  for  that  idol  of  filth  and  vulgarity. 
Adored  now-a-days,  and  yclept  Popularity. 
To  my  home 
Should  it  come, 
And  my  hogshead's  bright  aperture  darken, 
Think  not  to  such  summons  I'd  hearken, 
No  I   I'd  say  to  that  goule  grim  and  gaunt. 
Vile  phantom,  avaunt  I 
Get  thee  out  of  my  sight ! 
For  thy  clumsy  opacity  shuts  out  the  light 
Of  the  gay  glorious  sun 
From  my  classical  tun. 
Where  a  hater  of  cant  and  a  lover  of  fun 

159 


^    KJ1    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
as    ^SS    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Fain  would  revel  in  mirth,  and  would  lodge  in  ease — 
The  classical  tub  of  Diogenes  ! 

In  the  park  of  St.  Cloud  there  stares  at  you 
A  fine  Grecian  statue 
Of  my  liege,  the  philosopher  cynical : 
There  he  stands  on  a  pinnacle. 
And  his  lantern  is  placed  on  the  ground, 
While,  with  both  eyes  fixed  wholly  on 
The  favourite  haunt  of  Napoleon, 
"  A  man"  he  exclaims,  "  by  the  powers,  I  have  found  ! " 
But  for  me,  when  at  eve  I  go  sauntering 
On  the  boulevards  of  Athens,  "  Love  "  carries  my  lantern ; 
And,  egad  !  though  I  walk  most  demurely, 
For  a  man  Fm  not  looking  full  surely : 
Nay,  Fm  sometimes  brought  drunk  home. 
Like  honest  Jack  Reeve,  or  like  honest  Tom  Duncombe. 
O  !  the  nest 
For  a  lover  of  jest 
To  revel  in  fun,  and  to  lodge  in  ease, 
Is  the  classical  tub  of  Diogenes. 

Francis  Sylvester  Mahony 

("Father  Prout") 


THE  POPE 


160 


The  Pope  he  leads  a  happy  life. 
He  fears  not  married  care  or  strife. 
He  drinks  the  best  of  Rhenish  wine, 
I  would  the  Pope's  gay  lot  were  mine. 

Chorus 
He  drinks  the  best  of  Rhenish  wine, 
I  would  the  Pope's  gay  lot  were  mine. 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    j^    CT    OS    fsZ^ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^S    ESfl    C^    HS 

But  then  all  happy's  not  the  life. 
He  has  not  maid,  nor  blooming  wife ; 
Nor  child  has  he  to  raise  his  hope — 
I  would  not  wish  to  be  the  Pope. 

The  Sultan  better  pleases  me, 
His  is  a  life  of  jollity ; 
His  wives  are  many  as  he  will — 
I  would  the  Sultan's  throne  then  fill. 

But  even  he's  a  wretched  man, 

He  must  obey  his  Alcoran ; 

And  dares  not  drink  one  drop  of  wine — 

I  would  not  change  his  lot  for  mine. 

So  then  I'll  hold  my  lowly  stand. 
And  live  in  German  Vaterland  ; 
I'll  kiss  my  maiden  fair  and  fine. 
And  drink  the  best  of  Rhenish  wine. 

Whene'er  my  maiden  kisses  me, 
I'll  think  that  I  the  Sultan  be ; 
And  when  my  cheery  glass  I  tope, 
I'll  fancy  that  I  am  the  Pope. 

A  Burscken  melody,  translated  hy  Charles  Lever 

("  Harry  Lorrequer  ") 


161 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE 

OR    THE    WONDERFUL    "  ONE-HOSS    SHAY "" 
A    LOGICAL    STORY 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 

It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 

And,  then,  of  a  sudden,  it — ah,  but  stay, 

I'll  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay. 

Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 

Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits, — 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five, 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive, — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what. 

There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest  spot, — 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill. 

In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill. 

In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace, —  lurking  still, 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will, — 

Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without, — 

And  that's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt. 

That  a  chaise  breaks  down,  but  doesn't  wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do 
With  an  "  I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "  I  tell  yeou  " ) 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
*n*  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun' ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn  break  daown 
l62 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    R?)^    1^    OS    I 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^    ESs    C^    I 

"Fur/'  said  the  Deacon,  "'t's  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain ; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain. 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 

Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak. 

That  couldn't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke, — 

That  was  for  spokes  and  floors  and  sills ; 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills ; 

The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees, 

The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese. 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these ; 

The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  '^Settler's  ellum," 

Last  of  its  timber, — they  couldn't  sell  'em. 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips. 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 

Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips ; 

Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw. 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too. 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue ; 

Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide; 

Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 

Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 

That  was  the  way  he  "  put  her  through." 

"There  !  "  said  the  Deacon,  " naow  she'll  dew  ! " 

Do  !  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess. 

She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less  ! 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 

Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away. 

Children  and  grandchildren — where  were  they  ? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 

As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day  ! 

Eighteen  hundred  ; — it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten ; — 
"  Hahnsum  kerridge  "  they  called  it  then. 


163 


164 


fCE3    ra    AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
a^    ESS    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came ; — 
Running  as  usual;  much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive. 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  fifty-five. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth. 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large ; 

Take  it. — You're  welcome. — No  extra  charge.) 

First  of  November, — the  Earthquake-day, — 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 
A  general  flavour  of  mild  decay. 
But  nothing  local  as  one  may  say. 
There  couldn't  be, — for  the  Deacon's  art 
Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  wasn't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills. 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills. 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor. 
And  the  whipple-tree  neither  less  nor  more, 
And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 
And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  tvojm  out  I 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five  ! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 

Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way ! 

Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

Prawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 

"  Huddup !  "  said  the  parson, — Off  went  they. 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text, — 

He  got  to  Jifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 

At  what  the — Moses  was  coming  next. 

All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still. 

Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill. 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    RE 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    ^ 

First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill. 

Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill, — 

And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock. 

At  half-past  nine  by  the  meet' n' -house  clock, — 

Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock ! 

What  do  you  think  the  parson  found. 

When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 

The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound. 

As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground  ! 

You  see,  of  course,  if  you're  not  a  dunce. 

How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once, — 

All  at  once,  and  nothing  first, — 

Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-horse  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.     That's  all  I  say. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  THE  RIDICULOUS 

I  WROTE  some  lines,  once  on  a  time. 

In  wondrous  merry  mood. 
And  thought,  as  usual,  men  would  say 

They  were  exceeding  good. 

They  were  so  queer,  so  very  queer, 

I  laugh'd  as  I  would  die ; 
Albeit,  in  a  general  way, 

A  sober  man  am  L 

I  call'd  my  servant,  and  he  came ; 

How  kind  it  was  of  him, 
To  mind  a  slender  man  like  me. 

He  of  the  mighty  limb  ! 

"These  to  the  printer,"  I  exclaim'd. 
And,  in  my  humorous  way, 

I  added  (as  a  trifling  jest), 

"  There'll  be  the  devil  to  pay." 


165 


SJ^    CT    AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF 
3S    E3a    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

He  took  the  paper,  and  I  watched. 

And  saw  him  peep  within  ; 
At  the  first  line  he  read,  his  face 

Was  all  upon  the  grin. 

He  read  the  next ;  the  grin  grew  broad, 

And  shot  from  ear  to  ear ; 
He  read  the  third ;  a  chuckling  noise 

I  now  began  to  hear. 

The  fourth  ;  he  broke  into  a  roar ; 

The  fifth ;  his  waistband  split ; 
The  sixth ;  he  burst  the  buttons  off, 

And  tumbled  in  a  fit. 

Ten  days  and  nights,  with  sleepless  eye, 

I  watched  that  wretched  man. 
And  since,  I  never  dare  to  write 

As  funny  as  I  can. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 


MR.  MOLONY^S  ACCOUNT  OF  THE 
CRYSTAL  PALACE 

With  ganial  foire 
Thransfuse  me  loyre. 

Ye  sacred  nympths  of  Pindus, 
The  whoile  I  sing 
That  wondthrous  thing. 

The  Palace  made  o'  windows  ! 

Say,  Paxton,  truth. 
Thou  wondthrous  youth. 
What  sthroke  of  art  celistial, 
166 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF    Rj^ 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    HS 

What  power  was  lint 
You  to  invint 
This  combineetion  cristial. 

O  would  before 

That  Thomas  Moore 
Likewoise  the  late  Lord  Boyron, 

Thim  aigles  sthrong 

Of  godlike  song. 
Cast  oi  on  that  cast  oiron ! 

And  saw  thim  walls. 

And  glittering  halls, 
Thim  rising  slendther  columns, 

Which  I,  poor  pote, 

Could  not  denote. 
No,  not  in  twinty  vollums. 

My  Muse's  words 

Is  like  the  birds 
That  roosts  beneath  the  panes  there ; 

Her  wings  she  spoils, 

'Gainst  them  bright  toiles. 
And  cracks  her  silly  brains  there. 

This  Palace  tall, 

This  Cristial  Hall, 
Which  Imperors  might  covet. 

Stands  in  High  Park 

Like  Noah's  Ark, 
A  rainbow  bint  above  it. 

The  towers  and  fanes. 

In  other  scaynes. 
The  fame  of  this  will  undo. 

Saint  Paul's  big  doom, 

Saint  Payther's  Room, 
And  Dublin's  proud  Rotundo. 

'Tis  here  that  roams, 
As  well  becomes 
Her  dignitee  and  stations, 


167 


168 


3    CT    K0    K3    AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 

9  saa  ^s  sSb  humorous  verse 

Victoria  Great 
And  houlds  in  state 
The  Congress  of  the  Nations. 

Her  subjects  pours 

From  distant  shores, 
Her  Injians  and  Canajians ; 

And  also  we. 

Her  kingdoms  three, 
Attind  with  our  allagiance. 

Here  come  likewise 

Her  bould  allies. 
Both  Asian  and  European  ; 

From  East  and  West 

They  send  their  best 
To  fill  her  Coornucopean. 

I  see  (thank  Grace!) 

This  wondthrous  place 
(His  Noble  Honour  Misthur 

H.  Cole  it  was 

That  gave  the  pass, 
And  let  me  see  what  is  there). 

With  conscious  proide 

I  stud  insoide 
And  look'd  the  World's  Great  Fair  in. 

Until  me  sight 

Was  dazzled  quite. 
And  couldn't  see  for  staring. 

There's  holy  saints 

And  window  paints, 
By  Maydiayval  Pugin ; 

Alhamborough  Jones 

Did  paint  the  tones 
Of  yellow  and  gambouge  in. 

There's  fountains  there 
And  crosses  fair ; 
There's  water-gods  with  urrns  ; 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    PnJ;^    1^ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^    1^ 

There's  organs  three 
To  play,  d'ye  see, 
"  God  save  the  Queen/'  by  turrns. 

There's  statues  bright 

Of  marble  white. 
Of  silver,  and  of  copper  ; 

And  some  in  zinc. 

And  some,  I  think, 
That  isn't  over  proper. 

There's  stame  Ingynes 

That  stands  in  lines. 
Enormous  and  amazing. 

That  squeal  and  snort 

Like  whales  in  sport. 
Or  elephants  a-grazing. 

There's  carts  and  gigs. 

And  pins  for  pigs  ; 
There's  dibblers  and  there's  harrows. 

And  ploughs  like  toys. 

For  little  boys. 
And  ilegant  wheel-barrows. 

For  thim  genteels, 

Who  ride  on  wheels. 
There's  plenty  to  indulge  'em ; 

There's  Droskys  snug 

From  Paytersbug 
And  vayhycles  from  Bulgium. 

There's  Cabs  on  Stands 

And  Shandthry  danns  ; 
There's  Waggons  from  New  York  here  ; 

There's  Lapland  sleighs 

Have  cross'd  the  seas. 
And  Jaunting  Cyars  from  Cork  here. 

169 


AN  ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


17Q 


Amazed  I  pass 

From  glass  to  glass 
Deloighted  I  survey  'em ; 

Fresh  wondthers  grows 

Before  me  nose 
In  this  sublime  Musayum  ! 

Look,  here's  a  fan 

From  far  Japan, 
A  sabre  from  Damasco  : 

There's  shawls  we  get 

From  far  Thibet, 
And  cotton  prints  from  Glasgow. 

There's  German  flutes, 

Marocky  boots. 
And  Naples  Macaronies; 

Bohaymia 

Has  sent  Bohay; 
Polonia  her  polonies. 

There's  granite  flints 
That's  quite  imminse. 

There's  sacks  of  coals  and  fuels. 
There's  swords  and  guns. 
And  soap  in  tuns. 

And  Ginger-bread  and  Jewels. 

There's  taypots  there. 
And  cannons  rare  ; 

There's  coffins  filled  with  roses ; 
There's  canvass  tints. 
Teeth  insthrumints, 

And  shuits  of  clothes  by  Moses. 

There's  lashins  more 

Of  things  in  store, 
But  thim  I  don't  remember ; 

Nor  could  disclose 

Did  I  compose 
From  May- time  to  Novimber  I 


AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Ah  Judy  thrue  I 

With  eyes  so  blue. 
That  you  were  here  to  view  it — 

And  could  I  screw 

But  tu  pound  tu, 
*Tis  I  would  thrait  you  to  it ! 

So  let  us  raise 

Victoria's  praise. 
And  Albert's  proud  condition. 

That  takes  his  ayse 

As  he  surveys 
This  Cristial  Exhibition. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray 


THE  KING  OF  BRENTFORD'S  TESTAMENT 

The  noble  King  of  Brentford 

Was  old  and  very  sick  ; 
He  summon'd  his  physicians 

To  wait  upon  him  quick  ; 
They  stepp'd  into  their  coaches 

And  brought  their  best  physick. 

They  cramm'd  their  gracious  master 

With  potion  and  with  pill ; 
They  drench'd  him  and  they  bled  him : 

They  could  not  cure  his  ill. 
"  Go  fetch,"  says  he,  '^  my  lawyer, 

I'd  better  make  my  will." 

The  monarch's  royal  mandate 

The  lawyer  did  obey  ; 
The  thought  of  six-and-eightpence 

Did  make  his  heart  full  gay. 
"  What  is  't,"  says  he,  "  your  majesty 

Would  wish  of  me  to-day  }  *' 

171 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 

"  The  doctors  have  belaboured  me 

With  potion  and  with  pill ; 
My  hours  of  life  are  counted, 

0  man  of  tape  and  quill ! 

Sit  down  and  mend  a  pen  or  two, 

1  want  to  make  my  will. 

"  O'er  all  the  land  of  Brentford 

I'm  lord,  and  eke  of  Kew  ; 
I've  three-per-cents,  and  five-per-cents ; 

My  debts  are  but  a  few  ; 
And  to  inherit  after  me 

I  have  but  children  two. 

"  Prince  Thomas  is  my  eldest  son, 

A  sober  prince  is  he. 
And  from  the  day  we  breech'd  him 

Till  now  he's  twenty-three. 
He  never  caused  disquiet 

To  his  poor  Mamma  or  me. 

"  At  school  they  never  flogg'd  him. 

At  college  though  not  fast. 
Yet  his  little-go  and  great-go 

He  creditably  pass'd, 
And  made  his  year's  allowance 

For  eighteen  months  to  last. 

*'  He  never  owed  a  shilling. 

Went  never  drunk  to  bed  ; 
He  has  not  two  ideas 

Within  his  honest  head — 
In  all  respects  he  differs 

From  my  second  son.  Prince  Ned. 

''  When  Tom  has  half  his  income 

Laid  by  at  the  year's  end. 
Poor  Ned  has  ne'er  a  stiver 

That  rightly  he  may  spend  ; 
But  sponges  on  a  tradesman. 

Or  borrows  from  a  friend. 


17S 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^    ^TFi    r^    K 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    ^    ^    tffl    b 

"While  Pom  his  legal  studies 

Most  soberly  pursues. 
Poor  Ned  must  pass  his  mornings 

A-dawdling  with  the  Muse  : 
While  Tom  frequents  his  banker. 

Young  Ned  frequents  the  Jews, 

"  Ned  drives  about  in  buggies, 

Tom  sometimes  takes  a  'bus ; 
Ah  !  cruel  Fate,  why  made  you 

My  children  differ  thus  ? 
Why  make  of  Tom  a  dullard, 

And  Ned  a  genius  ?  " 

"  You'll  cut  him  with  a  shilling," 
Exclaimed  the  man  of  writs  ; — 

"I'll  leave  my  wealth,"  said  Brentford, 
"  Sir  lawyer,  as  befits ; 

And  portion  both  their  fortunes 
Unto  their  several  wits." 

"  Your  Grace  knows  best,"  the  lawyer  said, 

"  On  your  commands  I  wait," 
"Be  silent.  Sir,"  says  Brentford, 

"  A  plague  upon  your  prate  ! 
Come,  take  your  pens  and  paper. 

And  write  as  I  dictate." 

The  will  as  Brentford  spoke  it, 
Was  writ  and  signed  and  closed ; 

He  bade  the  lawyer  leave  him. 

And  turned  him  round  and  dozed  ; 

And  next  week  in  the  churchyard 
The  good  old  king  reposed. 

Tom,  dress'd  in  crape  and  hat  band. 

Of  mourners  was  the  chief; 
In  bitter  self-upbraidings 

Poor  Edward  showed  his  grief; 
Tom  hid  his  fat  white  countenance 

In  his  pocket-handkerchief. 


178 


174 


f^    1^    AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF 
3S    Has    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Ned's  eyes  were  full  of  weeping. 

He  falter'd  in  his  walk ; 
Tom  never  shed  a  tear. 

But  onwards  he  did  stalk, 
As  pompous,  black,  and  solemn 

As  any  catafalque. 

And  when  the  bones  of  Brentford, 

That  gentle  king  and  just. 
With  bell  and  book  and  candle 

Were  duly  laid  in  dust, 
"  Now,  gentleman,"  says  Thomas, 

"  Let  business  be  discussed. 

*'  When  late  our  sire  beloved 

Was  taken  deadly  ill. 
Sir  lawyer,  you  attended  him 

(I  mean  to  tax  your  bill) ; 
And  as  you  signed  and  wrote  it, 

I  prythee  read  the  will." 

The  lawyer  wiped  his  spectacles, 

And  drew  the  parchment  out ; 
And  all  the  Brentford  family 

Sate  eager  round  about. 
Poor  Ned  was  somewhat  anxious, 

But  Tom  had  ne'er  a  doubt. 

"  My  son,  as  I  make  ready 

To  seek  my  last  long  home. 
Some  cares  I  feel  for  Neddy, 

But  none  for  thee,  my  Tom  ; 
Sobriety  and  order 

You  ne'er  departed  from. 

"  Ned  hath  a  brilliant  genius. 

And  thou  a  plodding  brain  ; 
On  thee  I  think  with  pleasure. 

On  him  with  doubt  and  pain." 
("You  see,  good  Ned,"  says  Thomas, 

"  What  he  thought  about  us  twain.") 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


"  Though  small  was  your  allowance. 

You  saved  a  little  store. 
And  those  who  save  a  little 

Shall  get  a  plenty  more  " 
(As  the  lawyer  read  this  compliment, 

Tom's  eyes  were  running  o'er). 

"  The  tortoise  and  the  hare,  Tom, 

Set  out  at  each  his  pace ; 
The  hare  it  was  the  fleeter. 

The  tortoise  won  the  race ; 
And  since  the  world's  beginning 

This  ever  was  the  case. 

"  Ned's  genius,  blithe  and  singing. 
Steps  gaily  o'er  the  ground  ; 

As  steadily  you  trudge  it. 
He  clears  it  with  a  bound ; 

But  dulness  has  stout  legs,  Tom, 
And  wind  that's  wondrous  sound. 

"  O'er  fruits  and  flowers  alike,  Tom, 
You  pass  with  plodding  feet ; 

You  heed  not  one  nor  t'other. 
But  onwards  go  your  beat : 

While  genius  stops  to  loiter 
With  all  that  he  may  meet ; 

"  And  ever  as  he  wanders 

Will  have  a  pretext  fine 
For  sleeping  in  the  morning, 

Or  loitering  to  dine, 
Or  dozing  in  the  shade. 

Or  basking  in  the  shine. 

"  Your  little  steady  eyes,  Tom, 
Though  not  so  bright  as  those 

That  restless  round  about  him 
Your  flashing  genius  throws. 

Are  excellently  suited 
To  look  before  your  nose. 


175 


176 


ra^    [nKJ    ^    AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
^    ^    ^    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

"Thank  heaven_,  then^  for  the  blinkers 

It  placed  before  your  eyes  ; 
The  stupidest  are  weakest. 

The  witty  are  not  wise ; 
Oh,  bless  your  good  stupidity. 

It  is  your  dearest  prize  ! 

"  And  though  ray  lands  are  wide. 

And  plenty  is  my  gold. 
Still  better  gifts  from  Nature, 

My  Thomas,  do  you  hold — 
A  brain  that's  thick  and  heavy 

A  heart  that's  dull  and  cold — 

"  Too  dull  to  feel  depression, 

Too  hard  to  heed  distress, 
Too  cold  to  yield  to  passion 

Or  silly  tenderness. 
March  on — your  road  is  open 

To  wealth,  Tom,  and  success. 

''  Ned  sinneth  in  extravagance. 

And  you  in  greedy  lust." 
("  r  faith,"  says  Ned,  "  our  father 

Is  less  polite  than  just.") 
"In  you,  son  Tom,  I've  confidence. 

But  Ned  I  cannot  trust. 

"Wherefore  my  lease  and  copyholds. 

My  lands  and  tenements. 
My  parks,  my  farms,  and  orchards, 

My  houses  and  my  rents  ; 
My  Dutch  stock  and  my  Spanish  stock. 

My  five  and  three  per  cents, 

"  I  leave  to  you,  my  Thomas — " 
("  What,  all  ?  "  poor  Edward  said  ; 

**  Well,  well,  I  should  have  spent  them, 
And  Tom's  a  prudent  head  ") 

"  I  leave  to  you,  my  Thomas — 
To  you,  IN  TRUST  for  Ned." 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^^ 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    ^M 

The  wrath  and  consternation 

What  poet  e'er  could  trace. 
That  at  this  fatal  passage 

Came  o'er  Prince  Tom,  his  face  ; 
The  wonder  of  the  company. 

And  honest  Ned's  amaze  ! 

"  'Tis  surely  some  mistake," 

Good-naturedly  cries  Ned ; 
The  lawyer  answered  gravely, 

"  'Tis  even  as  I  said  ; 
*Twas  thus  his  gracious  majesty 

Ordain'd  on  his  death-bed. 

"  See  here,  the  will  is  witness'd 

And  here's  his  autograph  ; '' 
"In  truth,  our  father's  writing,'' 

Says  Edward,  with  a  laugh  ; 
'*  But  thou  shalt  not  be  a  loser,  Tom, 

We'll  share  it  half-and-half." 

"  Alas  !  my  kind  young  gentleman, 

This  sharing  may  not  be ; 
'Tis  written  in  the  testament 

That  Brentford  spoke  to  me, 
'  I  do  forbid  Prince  Ned  to  give 

Prince  Tom  a  halfpenny. 

'  He  hath  a  store  of  money. 

But  ne'er  was  known  to  lend  it ; 
He  never  help'd  his  brother. 

The  poor  he  ne'er  befriended  ; 
He  hath  no  need  of  property 

Who  knows  not  how  to  spend  it. 

" '  Poor  Edward  knows  but  how  to  spend. 

And  thrifty  Tom  to  hoard  ; 
Let  Thomas  be  the  steward,  then. 

And  Edward  be  the  lord ; 
And  as  the  honest  labourer 

Is  worthy  his  reward, 

M  177 


K3    [n2^    1521    AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF 
E5a    y^    E3S    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

"  '  I  pray  Prince  Nedj  my  second  son, 

And  my  successor  dear, 
To  pay  to  his  intendant 

Five  hundred  pounds  a  year  ; 
And  to  think  of  his  old  father, 

And  live  and  make  good  cheer/  " 


Such  was  old  Brentford's  honest  testament. 
He  did  devise  his  moneys  for  the  best, 
And  lies  in  Brentford  church  in  peaceful  rest. 

Prince  Edward  lived,  and  money  made  and  spent ; 
But  his  good  sire  was  wTong,  it  is  confess'd, 

To  say  his  son,  young  Thomas,  never  lent. 
He  did.     Young  Thomas  lent  at  interest, 

And  nobly  took  his  twenty-five  per  cent. 

Long  time  the  famous  reign  of  Ned  endured 

O'er  Chiswick,  Fulham,  Brentford,  Putney,  Kew ; 

But  of  extravagance  he  ne'er  was  cured. 

And  when  both  died,  as  mortal  men  will  do, 

"  'Twas  commonly  reported  that  the  steward 
Was  very  much  the  richer  of  the  two. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray 


LITTLE  BILLEE 

There  were  three  sailors  in  Bristol  City, 
Who  took  a  boat  and  went  to  sea. 

But  first  with  beef  and  captain's  biscuit. 
And  pickled  pork  they  loaded  she. 

There  was  guzzling  Jack  and  gorging  Jimmy, 
And  the  youngest  he  was  little  Bil-/^. 

Now  very  soon  they  were  so  greedy. 
They  didn't  leave  not  one  split  pea. 
178 


AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^^    ^^    r^    ^^ 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    ^    £23    C^    ^^ 

Says  guzzling  Jack  to  gorging  Jimmy, 
I  am  confounded  hung-ery. 

Says  gorging  Jim  to  guzzling  Jacky, 
We  have  no  wittles,  so  we  must  eat  we. 

Says  guzzling  Jack  to  gorging  Jimmy, 
O  gorging  Jim,  what  a  fool  you  be. 

There's  little  Bill  as  is  young  and  tender. 
We're  old  and  tough — so  let's  eat  he. 

O  Bill,  we're  going  to  kill  and  eat  you, 
So  undo  the  collar  of  your  chemie. 

When  Bill  he  heard  this  information, 
He  used  his  pocket-handkerchee. 

O  let  me  say  my  Catechism, 

As  my  poor  mammy  taught  to  me. 

Make  haste,  make  haste,  says  guzzling  Jacky, 
Whilst  Jim  pulled  out  his  snicker-snee. 

So  Bill  went  up  the  main  top-gallant  mast, 
When  down  he  fell  on  his  bended  knee. 

He  scarce  had  said  his  Catechism, 

When  up  he  jumps  :     "  There's  land  I  see. 

"  There's  Jerusalem  and  Madagascar, 
And  North  and  South  Ameri-kei/ 

There's  the  British  fleet  a-riding  at  anchor. 
With  Admiral  Napier,  K.C.B." 

So  when  they  came  to  the  Admiral's  vessel. 
He  hanged  fat  Jack,  and  flogged  Jim-mi/. 

But  as  for  little  Bill,  he  made  him 
The  Captain  of  a  Seventy-three. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray 


179 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


A  BOW  STREET  BALLAD 

by  a  gentleman  of  the  force 

The  Knight  and  the  Lady 

There's  in  the  Vest  a  city  pleasant. 
To  vich  King  Bladud  gev  his  name, 

And  in  that  city  there's  a  Crescent, 
Vere  dwelt  a  noble  knight  of  fame. 

Although  that  galliant  knight  is  oldish, 
Although  Sir  John  as  grey,  grey  air, 

Hage  has  not  made  his  busum  coldish, 
His  Art  still  beats  tewodds  the  Fair ! 

'Twas  two  years  sins,  this  knight  so  splendid, 
Peraps  fateagued  with  Bath's  routines. 

To  Paris  towne  his  phootsteps  bended 
In  sutch  of  gayer  folks  and  scans. 

His  and  was  free,  his  means  was  easy, 

A  nobler,  finer  gent  than  he 
Ne'er  drove  about  the  Shons-Eleesy, 

Or  paced  the  Roo  de  Rivolee. 

A  brougham  and  pair  Sir  John  prowided. 
In  which  abroad  he  loved  to  ride ; 

But  ar  !  he  most  of  all  enjoy'd  it. 

When  some  one  helse  was  sittin'  inside ! 

That  "  some  one  helse  "  a  lovely  dame  was. 
Dear  ladies,  you  will  heasy  tell — 

Countess  Grabrowski  her  sweet  name  was, 
A  nobler  title,  ard  to  spell. 

This  faymus  Countess  ad  a  daughter 

Of  lovely  form  and  tender  art ; 
A  nobleman  in  marridge  sought  her. 
By  name  the  Baron  of  Saint  Bart. 
180 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    PvT^    K^    ^    tsJZ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^S    E^    C^    HS 

Their  pashn  touched  the  noble  Sir  John, 

It  was  so  pewer  and  profound ; 
Lady  Grabrowski  he  did  urge  on. 

With  Hyming's  wreath  their  loves  to  crownd. 

"  O,  come  to  Bath,  to  Lansdowne  Crescent," 
Says  kind  Sir  John,  "  and  live  with  me  ; 

The  living  there's  uncommon  pleasant — 
I'm  sure  you'll  find  the  hair  agree. 

"  O,  come  to  Bath,  my  fair  Grabrowski, 
And  bring  your  charming  girl,"  sezee ; 

*'  The  Barring  here  shall  have  the  ouse-key, 
Vith  breaksfast,  dinner,  lunch,  and  tea. 

"  And  when  they've  passed  an  appy  winter. 
Their  opes  and  loves  no  more  we'll  bar ; 

The  marridge-vow  they'll  enter  inter. 
And  I  at  Church  will  be  their  Par." 

To  Bath  they  went  to  Lansdowne  Crescent, 

Where  good  Sir  John  he  did  provide 
No  end  of  teas,  and  balls  incessant, 

And  bosses  both  to  drive  and  ride. 

He  was  so  Ospitably  busy. 

When  Miss  was  late,  he'd  make  so  bold 
Upstairs  to  call  out,  "  Missy,  Missy, 

Come  down,  the  cofFy's  getting  cold  ! " 

But  O  !  'tis  sadd  to  think  such  bounties 
Should  meet  with  such  return  as  this ; 

O,  Barring  of  Saint  Bart,  O,  Countess 
Grabrowski,  and  O,  cruel  Miss  ! 

He  married  you  at  Bath's  fair  Habby, 

Saint  Bart  he  treated  like  a  son — 
And  wasn't  it  uncommon  shabby 

To  do  what  you  have  went  and  done ! 

My  trembling  And  amost  refewses 

To  write  the  charge  which  Sir  John  swore. 

Of  which  the  Countess  he  ecuses. 
Her  daughter  and  her  son-in-lore. 

181 


[^    K3    K[:^    K3    A'N  ANTHOLOGY   OF    ^ 
^S^    ES    ^    ESB    HUMOROUS    VERSE    CS 

My  Mews  quite  blushes  as  she  sings  of 
The  fatle  charge  which  now  I  quote  : 

He  says  Miss  took  his  two  best  rings  off, 
And  pawned  'em  for  a  tenpun  note. 

"  Is  this  the  child  of  honest  parince, 
To  make  away  with  folks'  best  things  ? 

Is  this,  pray,  like  the  wives  of  Barrins, 
To  go  and  prig  a  gentleman's  rings  ?  " 

Thus  thought  Sir  John,  by  anger  wrought  on, 

And  to  rewenge  his  injured  cause. 
He  brought  them  hup  to  Mr.  Broughton, 

Last  Vensday  veek  as  ever  waws. 

If  guiltless,  how  she  have  been  slanderd  ! 

If  guilty,  wengeance  will  not  fail ; 
Meanwhile,  the  lady  is  remanderd 

And  gev  three  hundred  pounds  in  bail. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LIMERICK 

Ye  Genii  of  the  nation. 

Who  look  with  veneration. 
And  Ireland's  desolation  onsay singly  deplore ; 

Ye  sons  of  General  Jackson, 

Who  thrample  on  the  Saxon, 
Attend  to  the  thransaction  upon  Shannon  shore. 

When  William,  Duke  of  Schumbug, 

A  tyrant  and  a  humbug. 
With  cannon  and  with  thunder  on  our  city  bore. 

Our  fortitude  and  valliance 

Insthructed  his  battalions 
To  rispect  the  galliant  Irish  upon  Shannon  shore. 
182 


^    AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    [^    RtJ^    fpsq    R?^ 
C^    HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^    ^    C^    ^ 

Since  that  capitulation, 

No  city  in  this  nation 
So  grand  a  reputation  could  boast  before, 

As  Limerick  prodigious. 

That  stands  with  quays  and  bridges. 
And  the  ships  up  to  the  windies  of  the  Shannon  shore. 

A  chief  of  ancient  line, 

'Tis  William  Smith  O'Brine, 
Reprisints  this  darling  Limerick,  this  ten  years  or  more : 

O  the  Saxons  can't  endure 

To  see  him  on  the  flure. 
And  thrimble  at  the  Cicero  from  Shannon  shore  ! 

This  valiant  son  of  Mars 

Had  been  to  visit  Par's, 
That  land  of  Revolution,  that  grows  the  tricolor; 

And  to  welcome  his  return 

From  pilgrimages  furren. 
We  invited  him  to  tay  on  the  Shannon  shore. 

Then  we  summoned  to  our  board 

Young  Meagher  of  the  sword  : 
'Tis  he  will  sheathe  that  battle-axe  in  Saxin  gore; 

And  MiTCHiL  of  Belfast, 

We  bade  to  our  repast. 
To  dthrink  a  dish  of  coffee  on  the  Shannon  shore. 

Convaniently  to  hould 

Those  patriots  so  bould. 
We  tuck  the  opportunity  of  Tim  Doolan's  store  ; 

And  with  ornamints  and  banners 

(As  becomes  gintale  good  manners) 
We  made  the  loveliest  tay-room  upon  Shannon's  shore. 

'Twould  binifit  your  sowls. 

To  see  the  butthered  rowls. 
The  sugar-tongs  and  sangwidges  and  craim  galyore. 

And  the  muffins  and  the  crumpets, 

And  the  band  of  harp  and  thrumpets, 
To  celebrate  the  sworry  upon  Shannon  shore. 

183 


KS    N0    K3    K0    JS?1    AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
C^    ^    ESS    y^    ^    HUMOROUS   VERSE 

Sure  the  Imperor  of  Bohay 

Would  be  proud  to  dthrink  the  tay 
That  Mistress  Biddy  Rooney  for  O'Brine  did  pour; 

And,  since  the  days  of  Strongbow, 

There  never  was  such  Congo — 
MrrcHiL  dthrank  six  quarts  of  it — by  Shannon  shore. 

But  Clarndon  and  Corry 

CoNNELLAN  beheld  this  s worry 
With  rage  and  imulation  in  their  black  hearts'  core ; 

And  they  hired  a  gang  of  ruffins 

To  interrupt  the  muffins. 
And  the  fragrance  of  the  Congo  on  the  Shannon  shore 

When  full  of  tay  and  cake, 

O'Brine  began  to  spake, 
But  juice  a  one  could  hear  him,  for  a  sudden  roar 

Of  a  ragamuffin  rout. 

Began  to  yell  and  shout. 
And  frighten  the  propriety  of  Shannon  shore. 

As  Smith  O'Brine  harangued. 
They  batthered  and  they  banged  : 

Tim  Doolan's  doors  and  windows,  down  they  tore; 
They  smashed  the  lovely  windies, 
(Hung  with  muslin  from  the  Indies), 

Purshuing  of  their  shindies  upon  Shannon  shore. 

With  throwing  of  brickbats, 
Drowned  puppies,  and  dead  rats. 

These  ruffin  democrats  themselves  did  lower ; 
Tin  kettles,  rotten  eggs, 
Cabbage  stalks  and  wooden  legs. 

They  flung  among  the  patriots  of  Shannon  shore. 

O  the  girls  began  to  scrame. 

And  upset  the  milk  and  crame ; 
And  the  honourable  gintlemin,  they  cursed  and  swore 

And  MiTCHiL  of  Belfast, 

'Twas  he  that  looked  aghast. 
When  they  roasted  him  in  efRgy  by  Shannon  shore. 
184 


r^    AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    FJ^    R^l    ^3 
W    HUMOROUS   VERSE    ^^    ESb    CSa 

O  the  lovely  tay  was  spilt 

On  that  day  of  Ireland's  guilt ; 
Says  Jack  Mitchil,  "  I  am  kilt !  Boys,  where's  the  back 
door  ? 

'Tis  a  national  disgrace ; 

Let  me  go  and  veil  me  face  !  " 
And  he  boulted  with  quick  pace  from  Shannon  shore. 

"  Cut  down  the  bloody  horde  ! " 

Says  Meagher  of  the  sword, 
"This  conduct  would  disgrace  any  blackamoor" ; 

But  the  best  use  Tommy  made 

Of  his  famous  blattle  blade 
Was  to  cut  his  own  stick  from  the  Shannon  shore. 

Immortal  Smith  O'Brine 

Was  raging  like  a  line  ; 
'Twould  have  done  your  sowl  good  to  have  heard  him  roar 

In  his  glory  he  arose, 

And  he  rush'd  upon  his  foes. 
And  they  hit  him  on  the  nose  by  the  Shannon  shore. 

Then  the  Futt  and  the  Dthragoons 

In  squadthrons  and  platoons, 
With  their  music  playing  chunes,  down  upon  us  bore ; 

And  they  bate  the  rattatoo. 

But  the  Peelers  came  in  view. 
And  ended  the  shaloo  on  the  Shannon  shore. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray 


185 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


JEAMES  OF  BUCKLEY  SQUARE 

A    HELIGY 

Come  all  ye  gents  vot  cleans  the  plate. 

Come  all  ye  ladies,  maids  so  fair — 
Vile  I  a  story  vil  relate 

Of  cruel  Jeames  of  Buckley  Square. 
A  tighter  lad,  it  is  confesh, 

Neer  valked  with  powder  in  his  air, 
Or  vore  a  nosegay  in  his  breast. 

Than  andsum  Jeames  of  Buckley  Square. 

O  Evns  !  it  vas  the  best  of  sights, 

Behind  his  Master's  coach  and  pair, 
To  see  our  Jeames  in  red  plush  tights, 

A-driving  hoft'from  Buckley  Square. 
He  well  became  his  hagwilletts, 

He  cocked  his  at  with  such  a  hair; 
His  calves  and  viskers  vas  such  pets, 

That  hall  loved  Jeames  of  Buckley  Square. 

He  pleased  the  hup-stairs  folks  as  well. 

And  o  I  I  vithered  with  despair. 
Misses  vould  ring  the  parler  bell. 

And  call  up  Jeames  in  Buckley  Square. 
Both  beer  and  sperrits  he  abhord, 

(Sperrits  and  beer  I  can't  a-bear), 
You  would  have  thought  he  vas  a  lord 

Down  in  our  All  in  Buckley  Square. 

Last  year,  he  vispered,  "  Mary  Hann, 

Ven  I've  a  under'd  pound  to  spare. 
To  take  a  public  is  my  plan, 

And  leave  this  hojous  Buckley  Square." 
O  how  my  gentle  heart  did  bound. 

To  think  that  I  his  name  should  bear, 
"  Dear  Jeames,"  says  I,  "  I've  twenty  pound," 

And  gev  them  him  in  Buckley  Square. 
186 


AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF    f>7;^    j^    ^    fv77 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^    tSS    C^    Ha 

Our  master  vas  a  City  gent. 

His  name's  in  railroads  everywhere. 
And  lord,  vot  lots  of  letters  vent 

Betwigst  his  brokers  and  Buckley  Square. 
My  Jeames  it  was  the  letters  took, 

And  read  'em  all  (I  think  its  fair), 
And  took  a  leaf  from  Master's  book. 

As  hothers  do  in  Buckley  Square. 

Encouraged  with  my  twenty  pound. 

Of  which  poor  /  was  unavare. 
He  wrote  the  Companies  all  round. 

And  signed  hisself  from  Buckley  Square. 
And  how  John  Porter  used  to  grin. 

As  day  by  day,  share  after  share. 
Came  railvay  letters  pouring  in, 

'^  J.  Plush,  Esquire,  in  Buckley  Square.'* 

Our  servants'  All  was  in  a  rage — 

Scrip,  stock,  curves,  gradients,  bull  and  bear, 
Vith  butler,  coachman,  groom  and  page, 

Vas  all  the  talk  in  Buckley  Square. 
But  O  !  imagine  vot  I  felt 

Last  Vensday  veek  as  ever  were ; 
I  gits  a  letter,  which  I  spelt 

'*  Mis  M. A.HoGGiNs,  Buckley  Square." 

He  sent  me  back  my  money  true — 

He  sent  me  back  my  lock  of  air. 
And  said,  "  My  dear,  I  bid  ajew 

To  Mary  Hann  and  Buckley  Square. 
Think  not  to  marry,  foolish  Hann, 

With  people  who  your  betters  are ; 
James  Plush  is  now  a  gentleman. 

And  you — a  cook  in  Buckley  Square. 

''  I've  thirty  thousand  guineas  won. 
In  six  short  months  by  genus  rare ; 

You  little  thought  what  Jeames  was  on. 
Poor  Mary  Hann,  in  Buckley  Square. 


187 


[sj;^    K3?5    AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^\ 

aa  eSs  humorous  verse  cSi 

I've  thirty  thousand  guineas  net, 

Powder  and  plush  I  scorn  to  vear ; 
And  so   Miss  Mary  Hann,  forget 

For  hever  Jeames,  of  Buckley  Square." 

[The  rest  of  this  MS.   is  illegible ,  being  literally  washed 
away  in  a  flood  of  tears.] 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray 


BAYONET  AND  CHISEL 

A    SENTIMENTAL    NARRATION 

I  PASSED  the  Palace  in  the  Park, 

In  sooth  it  was  a  weary  trudge. 
The  snow  with  trampled  mud  was  dark 

And  all  was  slide  and  slush  and  sludge. 
Wherein  I  greatly  feared  to  lose 
My  nice  new  Yankee  overshoes. 

I  kept  at  distance  from  the  dome 

Where  dwells  our  Sovereign  (when  at  home). 
Because  I  thought  my  short  way  home 

W^as  Birdcage  Walk,  of  old  renown. 
But  I  could  see  (and  therefore  state) 
Two  men  stood  near  that  Palace  gate. 

One  was  the  sentry — on  his  head 
The  fabled  skin  that  warms  the  bear. 

He  ceased  awhile  his  measured  tread, 
And  watched  the  other  working  there. 

For  this,  a  sculptor,  chiselled  what 

He  thought  adornment.     I  thought  not. 
188 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    fjTJ    K?^    ^    (v] 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    Hffl    ESfl    C^    ^ 

A  huge  tarpaulin  sound  and  black 
Shrouded  the  artist  like  a  cloak 

The  sentry  leant  his  manly  back 

Against  his  box,  and  thus  he  spoke — 

At  least  'twas  thus  to  Fancy's  ear ; 

For  I  was  too  far  off  to  hear  : — 

"  My  friend,  whose  skilful  plastic  art 
Creates  such  graces  out  of  stone, 

I  feel  a  certain  pang  at  heart 

When  thou  art  gone  and  I'm  alone, 

That  thou  can'st  do  such  things  as  these, 

While  I  can  only  stand  at  ease. 

"  Mine  was  a  country  life,  my  friend 
Away  from  art  and  all  its  lore. 

Until  kind  Fortune  deigned  to  send 
Recruiting  Sergeant  Henry  Moore. 

He  came — I  drank — I  took  his  fee. 

And  am  the  soldier  that  you  see. 

"  Yet  do  not  think  I  speak  in  spite. 
Or  envy  thee  thy  well-earned  gains. 

For  that  I  know  would  not  be  right, 
(Thanks  to  our  pious  chaplain's  pains) ; 

And  warmly  I  appreciate 

Thy  work  upon  our  Sovereign's  gate." 

He  ceased.     His  artist  friend  replied — 
Fancy,  once  more,  the  short-writer — 

"  Soldier,  thou  speakest,  by  my  side, 
Words  that  do  honour  to  a  mitre, 

And  I  am  proud  to  hear  thy  lip 

Commend  the  ornaments  I  chip. 

"  Yet  do  not  mourn,  thou  gallant  heart ; 

Our  ways  in  two  directions  run — 
Thou  in  grand  deeds  to  bear  a  part, 

I  to  record  them  when  they're  done. 
And  yet  'tis  pleasant,  friends,  to  feel 
We're  fellow- workers  with  the  Steel. 


189 


R73    ^    K?1    AN   ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^ 
^    ^    ^    HUMOROUS   VERSE    tS 

"  And  when  thy  Bagnetj  in  the  flank 
Of  Russian  slaves,  has  bid  them  flee. 

This  humble  chisel,  friend,  may  clank 
To  bid  some  marble  speak  of  thee. 

And  thus,  though  each  in  different  way. 

Are  we  not  colleagues — Brother — say  ?  " 

Thus  Fancy  deemed  that  at  their  stations, 
The  Sculptor  and  the  Soldier  talked. 

But  briefer  were  their  observations 
As  heard  by  one  who  nearer  walked, 

Soldier :  "  That  blessed  wind  is  Eastly." 

Artist :  "  Confound  the  day — its  Beastly. 

Shirley  Brooks 


A  VISION  OF  SIREN  SOUP 

The   Alderman   woke   from    his    nightmare,   howling    a 

terrible  cry : 
Punched  his  wife's  face  with  his  elbow :   at  morning  she 

had  a  black  eye  : 
Started  the  lady  in  terror,  giving  a  species  of  scream, 
And  this  was  old  Blogg's  apology,  this  the  account  of  his 

dream : — 

"  Sally,  Fm  blest  if  our  Sammy,  next  time  he  comes  home 

from  School, 
Tells  them  there  stories  at  supper,  Fll  take  and  Fll  wop 

the  young  fool. 
What  was  his  call  for  relating  things  that  Fll  swear  isn't 

fax. 
How   Mr.    Whatshisname   bunged  up  the   ears  of  them 

sailors  with  wax. 
190 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


"  How  them  young  females  like  mermaids  had  petticoats 

all  made  of  scales  : 
The  schoolmasters  ought  to  be  towelled  for  filling  boy's 

heads  with  such  tales, 
And  how  they  sang  songs  for  seducing  the  crews  of  the 

ships  as  they  passed, 
And  this  cove  kept  himself  from  their  clutches  by  getting 

tied  up  to  a  mast. 

"  I    suppose   as  I    mixed   up   together   Sam's   anecdotes 

touching  them  drabs 
With    my    sausages,    kidney^  Welsh    rabbit,    Scotch    ale, 

scolloped  oysters,  and  crabs, 
Or  whatever  beside  I'd  for  supper,  a  meal  no  Alderman 

misses, 
And   I    dreamt,   Sal,  as   I    was   the   party — the   name    I 

remember — Ulysses. 

"  I  dreamt  I  was  sailing  the  ocean,  enjoying  the  motion 

uncommon 
(You   know    what   I'd   soon   a-been   doing  at  sea,  was   I 

waking,  old  'oman), 
And  what  did  I  see  on  a  rock  (it's  as  true  as  a  sermon  in 

church). 
Why,  one  of  the  liveliest  turtles  as  ever  flapped  fin  at  old 

Birch. 

"But,  Sal,  he  worn't  laying  discreet,  like  a  babe  with  a 

shell  for  it's  bed, 
A-waiting  with  proper  decorum  till  somebody  cut  off  his 

head; 
But  with  him  a  codfish  and  wenison,  all  balancing  up  on 

their  end. 
And  playing  on  music,  and  calling  me,  just  as  if  I  was 

their  friend. 

"  Nice  kind  of  impident  critters ; "  says  I  to  a  sailor  or  two ; 
'Til  just  take  a  swim   to  them  rocks,  and  astonish  the 
rascals  a  few  ; 

191 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Just  fancy  me  saying  it,  Sally,  and  talking  of  swimming  so 

fine. 
That  haven't  once  taken  a  bath  since  the  year  1809. 

"  And,  by  Gog,  I  was  going  to  do  it,  regardless  of  wetting 

my  togs. 
The  wittles  kep  bleating  and  crying:    'Come   here,   Mr. 

Alderman  Bloggs ! ' 
When  the  sailors  they  clutched  at  my  collar,  with  knuckles 

so  bony  and  big. 
And  held  me  as  tight  as  policemen  keep  hold  of  a  slippery 

prig- 

*'  It  was  no  use  my  bawling  and  scolding,  for  just  at  that 

minuteagain 
That  Sammy's  infernal  description  came  back  to  bewilder 

my  brain : 
Their  ears  were  all  full  of  red  sealing-wax — some  one  had 

dropped  it  in  hot, 
And  sealed  it  with  domine  dirrigee — what's  on  the  Mayor's 

silver  pot. 

"Then  all  the  impident  critters  they  flopped  all  at  once 

in  the  sea, 
And  with  their  windictive  mouths  open,  came  swimming 

to  get  hold  of  me. 
And  making  all  queer  kinds  of  noises,  they  swarmed  up 

the  side  of  the  boat, 
And  I  felt  their  wet  flappers  and  noses,  beginning  to  get 

at  my  throat. 

"So  then  I  bawled  out  in  my  terror,  the  thing  having 

got  past  a  joke. 
And  striking  out  fiercely  at    random,  I'm  happy  to    say 

as  I  woke." 
To  all  of  which  instructive  narration  his  Lady  vouchsafed 

no  reply ; 
But  with  what    she    called    Odeur-Cologney    sat    sulkily 

dabbing  her  eye. 

Shirley  Brooks 
192 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS  VERSE 


THE  POLICEMAN'S  TEAR 

Against  the  rails  he  leant, 

To  take  a  last  fond  look. 
At  the  kitchen  he  was  petted  in, 

And  the  open-handed  cook. 
He  heard  the  pretty  housemaid  read — 

'*  The  Guards  will  soon  be  here," 
And  the  Peeler  turned  his  bracelet  round. 

And  wiped  away  a  tear. 

He  thought  on  beef  and  pickles. 

On  the  lobster  and  the  crab. 
And  the  other  dainties  that  the  Force 

So  well  knows  how  to  grab. 
He  thought  of  Susan's  sixpences, 

Of  Sarah's  supper-beer. 
And  the  Peeler  turned  his  bracelet  round. 

And  wiped  away  a  tear. 

For  the  Guards,  the  Guards  are  coming — 

A  week,  and  we  shall  find 
His  nose  put  not  less  out  of  joint 

Than  our  larder,  when  he'd  dined. 
Cousins  from  the  Crimea 

With  his  rights  will  interfere — 
No  wonder  that  the  Peeler  sighed. 

And  wiped  away  a  tear. 

But  there  is  vengeance  in  his  head, 

So  do  not  deem  him  weak — 
There's  many  a  soldier  will  be  watched 

And  brought  before  the  Beak. 
And  of  his  rivals  he  will  try 

To  keep  our  kitchens  clear. 
No  sharper  eye  the  steps  can  guard 

Than  now  lets  fall  the  tear. 

Shirley  Brooks 
N  193 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  COQUETTE— A  PORTRAIT 

"  You're  clever  at  drawing,  I  own," 
Said  my  beautiful  cousin  Lisette, 

As  we  sat  by  the  window  alone, 

"  But  say,  can  you  paint  a  Coquette  ?  " 

'*  She's  painted  already,"  quoth  I ; 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  the  laughing  Lisette, 
*'  Now  none  of  your  joking — but  try 

And  paint  me  a  thorough  Coquette." 

''  Well,  cousin,"  at  once  I  began 
In  the  ear  of  the  eager  Lisette, 

*'  I'll  paint  yOu  as  well  as  I  can, 
That  wonderful  thing,  a  Coquette. 

''  She  wears  a  most  beautiful  face," 
("  Of  course,"  said  the  pretty  Lisette,) 

"  And  isn't  deficient  in  grace. 
Or  else  she  were  not  a  Coquette. 

'*  And  then  she  is  daintily  made  " 
(A  smile  from  the  dainty  Lisette,) 

*'  By  people  expert  in  the  trade 
Oi  forming  a  proper  Coquette. 

"  She  knows  how  to  weep  and  to  sigh," 
(A  sigh  from  the  tender  Lisette,) 

"  But  her  weeping  is  all  in  my  eye, — 
Not  that  of  the  cunning  Coquette  I 

"  In  short,  she's  a  creature  of  art," 

C  O  hush  !  "  said  the  frowning  Lisette,) 

"  With  merely  the  ghost  of  a  heart. 
Enough  for  a  thorough  Coquette. 


AN  ANTHOLOGY   OF    ^^ 
HUMOROUS  VERSE    aa 

"  And  yet  I  could  easily  prove  " 

("  Now  don't ! "  said  the  angry  Lisette,) 

"  The  lady  is  always  in  love, — 

In  love  with  herself, — the  Coquette  ! 

"  There,— do  not  be  angry  ! — you  know. 

My  dear  little  cousin  Lisette, 
You  told  me  a  moment  ago. 

To  paint  ^oz< — a  thorough  Coquette  !" 

John  Godfrey  Saxe 


wMm 


THE  PIOUS  EDITOR'S  CREED 

I  DU  believe  in  Freedom's  cause, 

Ez  fur  away  ez  Paris  is  ; 
I  love  to  see  her  stick  her  claws 

In  them  infarnal  Phayrisees ; 
It's  wal  enough  agin  a  king 

To  dror  resolves  an'  triggers, — 
But  iibbaty's  a  kind  o'  thing 

Thet  don't  agree  with  niggers. 

I  du  believe  the  people  want 

A  tax  on  teas  an'  coffees, 
Thet  nothin'  aint  extravygunt, — 

Purvidin'  I'm  in  office  ; 
Fer  I  hev  loved  my  country  sence 

My  eye-teeth  filled  their  sockets. 
An'  Uncle  Sam  I  reverence, 

Partic'larly  his  pockets. 

195 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

I  du  believe  in  any  plan 

C  levyin'  the  taxes, 
Ez  long  ez,  like  a  lumberman, 

I  git  jest  wut  I  axes; 
I  go  free-trade  thru  thick  an'  thin. 

Because  it  kind  o'  rouses 
The  folks  to  vote, — an'  keeps  us  in 

Our  quiet  custom-houses. 

I  du  believe  it's  wise  an'  good 

To  sen'  out  furrin  missions, 
Thet  is,  on  sartin  understood 

An'  orthydox  conditions  ; — 
I  mean  nine  thousand  dolls,  per  ann., 

Nine  thousan'  more  fer  outfit. 
An'  me  to  recommend  a  man 

The  place  'ould  jest  about  fit. 

I  du  believe  in  special  ways, 

C  prayin'  an'  convartin'  ; 
The  bread  comes  back  in  many  days. 

An'  buttered,  tu,  fer  sartin  ; — 
I  mean  in  prayin'  till  one  busts 

On  wut  the  party  chooses, 
An*  in  convartin'  public  trusts 

To  very  privit  uses. 

I  du  believe  hard  coin  the  stuff 

Fer  'lectioneers  to  spout  on  ; 
The  people's  oilers  soft  enough 

To  make  hard  money  out  on  ; 
Dear  Uncle  Sam  pervides  fer  his, 

An'  gives  a  good-sized  junk  to  all — 
I  don't  care  how  hard  money  is, 

Ez  long  ez  mine's  paid  punctooal. 

I  du  believe  with  all  my  soul 

In  the  gret  Press's  Freedom, 
To  pint  the  people  to  the  goal 

An'  in  the  traces  lead  'em  ; 


196 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    jj^ 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    ^ 

Palsied  the  arm  that  forges  yokes 

At  my  fat  contracts  squintin', 
An'  withered  be  the  nose  that  pokes 

Inter  the  gov'ment  printin' ! 

I  du  believe  that  I  should  give 

Wut's  his'n  unto  Caesar, 
Fer  it's  by  him  I  move  an'  live, 

Frum  him  my  bread  an'  cheese  air  ; 
I  du  believe  that  all  o'  me 

Doth  bear  his  superscription — 
Will,  conscience,  honor,  honesty, 

An'  things  o'  thet  description. 

I  du  believe  in  prayer  an'  praise 

To  him  that  hez  the  gran  tin' 
O*  jobs, — in  eveiy  thin'  thet  pays, 

But  most  of  all  in  Cantin'  ; 
This  doth  my  cup  with  marcies  fill, 

This  lays  all  thought  o'  sin  to  rest, 
I  dont  believe  in  princerple, 

But,  oh,  I  du  in  interest. 

I  du  believe  in  bein'  this 

Or  thet,  ez  it  may  happen 
One  way  or  t'other  hendiest  is 

To  ketch  the  people  nappin'  ; 
It  ain't  by  princerples  nor  men 

My  preudunt  course  is  steadied — 
I  scent  which  pays  the  best,  an'  then 

Go  into  it  baldheaded. 

I  du  believe  that  holdin'  slaves 

Comes  nat'ral  to  a  Presidunt, 
Let  'lone  the  rowdedow  it  saves 

To  hev  a  wal-broke  precedunt ; 
Fer  any  office,  small  or  gret, 

I  couldn't  ax  with  no  face, 
'uthout  I'd  ben,  thru  dry  an'  wet, 

Th'  unrizzest  kind  o'  doughface. 

197 


^    JOT    AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF    g 
as    ESS    HUMOROUS    VERSE    G 

I  du  believe  wutever  trash 

'11  keep  the  people  in  blindness, — 
Thet  we  the  Mexicans  can  thrash 

Right  inter  brotherly  kindness, 
Thet  bombshells,  grape,  an'  powder  'n'  ball 

Air  good-will's  strongest  magnets, 
Thet  peace,  to  make  it  stick  at  all. 

Must  be  druv  in  with  bagnets. 

In  short,  I  firmly  du  believe 

In  Humbug  generally, 
Fer  it's  a  thing  thet  I  perceive 

To  hev  a  solid  vally  ; 
This  heth  my  faithful  shepherd  ben, 

In  pastures  sweet  heth  led  me. 
An'  this'll  keep  the  people  green 

To  feed  ez  they  hev  fed  me. 

James  Russell  Lowell 


198 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


WHAT  MR.  ROBINSON  THINKS 

GuvENKR  B.  is  a  sensible  man ; 

He  stays  to  his  home  an'  looks  arter  his  folks ; 
He  draws  his  furrer  ez  straight  ez  he  can, 
An'  into  nobody's  tater-patch  pokes ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  wunt  vote  for  Guvener  B. 

My !  ain't  it  terrible  ?  Wut  shall  we  du  ? 

We  can't  never  choose  him,  o'  coorse — thet's  flat ; 
Guess  we  shall  hev  to  come  round,  (don't  you  ?) 
An'  go  in  fer  thunder  an'  guns,  an'  all  that ; 
Fer  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  wunt  vote  for  Guvener  B. 
Gineral  C.  is  a  dreffle  smart  man : 

He's  been  on  all  sides  that  gives  places  or  pelf ; 
But  consistency  still  wuz  a  part  of  his  plan, — 

He's  ben  true  to  one  party — an'  thetis  himself; — 
So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  shall  vote  for  Gineral  C. 

Gineral  C.  he  goes  in  fer  the  war  ; 

He  don't  vally  principle  more'n  an  old  cud  ; 
Wut  did  God  make  us  raytional  creeturs  fer, 
But  glory  an'  gunpowder,  plunder  an'  blood  ? 
So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Says  he  shall  vote  for  Gineral  C. 

We  were  gittin*  on  nicely  up  here  to  our  village. 

With  good  old  idees  o'  wut's  right  an'  wut  ain't, 
"We  kin'  o'  thought  Christ  went  agin  war  an'  pillage. 
An'  thet  appyletts  worn't  the  best  mark  of  a  saint ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  this  kind  o'  thing's  an  exploded  idee. 

199 


^    jOT    AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    ^ 

as  e38  humorous  verse  tS 

The  side  of  our  country  must  oilers  be  took, 

An'  President  Polk,  you  know,  he  is  our  country ; 
An'  the  angel  thet  writes  all  our  sins  in  a  book 
Puts  the  debit  to  him,  and  to  us  the  per  contry  ; 
And  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  this  is  his  view  o*  the  thing  to  a  T. 

Parson  Wilbur  he  calls  all  these  argiments  lies ; 

Sez  they're  nothin'  on  airth  hut '^ust  fee jf aw,  fum ; 
An'  thet  all  this  big  talk  of  our  destinies 
Is  half  on  it  ignorance,  an'  t'other  half  rum  ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  it  ain't  no  sech  thing ;  an',  of  course,  so  must  we. 

Parson  Wilbur  says  he  never  heerd  in  his  life 

Thet  th'  Apostles  rigged  out  in  their  swaller-tail  coats^ 
An'  marched  round  in  front  of  a  drum  an'  a  fife. 
To  git  some  on  'em  office,  an'  some  on  'em  votes ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  they  didn't  know  every  thin'  down  in  Judee, 

Wal,  it's  a  marcy  we've  gut  folks  to  tell  us 

The  rights  an'  the  wrongs  o'  these  matters,  I  vow, — 
God  sends  country  lawyers,  an'  other  wise  fellers. 
To  start  the  world's  team  wen  it  gits  in  a  slough  ; 
Per  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  the  world'll  go  right,  ef  he  hollers  out  Gee  ! 

jAMEsJRUiSELL    LoWELL 


200 


AN  ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


TO  MY  GRANDMOTHER 

SUGGESTED   BY   A    PICTURE    BY    MR.     ROMNEY 

This  relative  of  mine 
Was  she  seventy  and  nine 

When  she  died  ? 
By  the  canvas  may  be  seen 
How  she  looked  at  seventeen, — 

As  a  bride. 

Beneath  a  summer  tree. 
As  she  sits,  her  reverie 

Has  a  charm ; 
Her  ringlets  are  in  taste, — 
What  an  arm  !  and  what  a  waist 

For  an  arm ! 

In  bridal  coronet. 

Lace,  ribbons  and  coquette 

Falbala  ; 
Were  Romney's  limning  true. 
What  a  lucky  dog  were  you, 

Grandpapa ! 

Her  lips  are  sweet  as  love, — 
They  are  parting  !  do  they  move  ? 

Are  they  dumb  ? — 
Her  eyes  are  blue,  and  beam 
Beseechingly,  and  seem 

To  say  «  Come." 

What  funny  fancy  slips 

From  atween  these  cherry  lips  ? 

Whisper  me. 
Sweet  deity,  in  paint, 
What  canon  says  I  mayn't 

Marry  thee  ? 

801 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    E 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    C 

That  good-for-nothing  Time 
Has  a  confidence  sublime  I 

When  I  first 
Saw  this  lady,  in  my  youth. 
Her  winters  had,  forsooth. 

Done  their  worst. 

Her  locks  (as  white  as  snow) 

For  his  wing  once  shamed  the  crow 

By  their  dye, — 
That  fowl  of  cloven  tread 
Had  set  his  foot,  instead 

In  her  eye. 

Her  rounded  form  was  lean. 
And  her  silk  was  bombazine : — 

Well  I  wot. 
With  her  needles  would  she  sit. 
And  for  hours  would  she  knit, — 

Would  she  not  ? 

Ah,  perishable  clay ! 

Her  charms  had  dropt  away 

One  by  one. 
But  if  she  heaved  a  sigh 
With  a  burthen,  it  was,  "  Thy 

Will  be  done." 

In  travail,  as  in  tears. 
With  the  fardel  of  her  years 

Overprest, — 
In  mercy  was  she  borne 
Where  the  weary  ones  and  worn. 

Are  at  rest. 

I'm  fain  to  meet  you  there, — 
If  as  witching  as  you  were. 

Grandmamma ! 
This  nether  world  agrees 
That  the  better  it  must  please 
Grandpapa. 

Frederick  Locker-Lampson 
SOS 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  BEAR  PIT 

AT    THE    ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS 


We  liked  the  bear's  serio-comical  face, 
As  he  loU'd  with  a  lazy,  a  lumbering  grace ; 
Said  Slyboots  to  me,  (as  if  she  had  none,) 
"  Papa,  let's  give  Bruin  a  bit  of  your  bun." 

Says  I,  "  A  plum  bun  might  please  wistful  old  Bruin, 
For  he  can't  eat  the  stone  that  the  cruel  boy  threw  in  ; 
Stick  yours  on  the  point  of  mamma's  parasol. 
And  then  he  will  climb  to  the  top  of  the  pole. 

"  Some  bears  have  got  two  legs,  some  bears  have  got  more, 
Be  good  to  old  bears  if  they've  no  legs  or  four  : 
Of  duty  to  age  you  should  never  be  careless. 
My  dear,  I  am  bald — I  soon  shall  be  hairless. 

"  The  strangest  aversion  exists  among  bears 
From  rude  forward  persons  who  give  themselves  airs, 
We  know  how  some  graceless  young  people  were  maul'd 
For  plaguing  Elisha,  and  calling  hira  bald. 

"  Strange  ursine  devotion !  their  dancing  days  ended, 
Bears  die  to  "  remove  "  what,  in  life,  they  defended : 
They  succoured  the  Prophet  and  since  that  affair 
The  bald  have  a  painful  regard  for  the  bear." 

My  moral — small  people  may  read  it,  and  run, 
(The  child  has  my  moral,  the  bear  has  my  bun,) 
Forbear  to  give  pain,  if  it's  only  in  jest. 
And  care  to  think  pleasure  a  phantom  at  best. 
A  paradox,  too — none  can  hope  to  a^ttach  it, 
Yet  if  you  pursue  it,  you'll  certainly  catch  it. 

Frederick  Locker- Lampson 


203 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


THE  ANGORA  CAT 

Tb,  Dupont,  laudamus, 

Of  Cite  Fadette, 
Whose  lady  makes  famous 

Brioche  and  galette  ! 

As  any  he's  fat  that 

Eat /ncd<  off  delf. 
And  she  had  a  cat  that 

Was  fat  as  herself. 

Long  hair — soft  as  satin, — 

A  musical  purr — 
'Gainst  the  window  she'd  flatten 

Her  delicate  fur. 

My  Zouzou  to  see  what 
The  town  would  be  at, 

I  drove  ;  when  cried  she,  "  What 
An  exquisite  cat !  " 

''  What  whiskers  !  she's  purring 

All  over !  Regale 
Our  eyes,  puss,  by  stirring 

Your  feathery  tail." 

"  Dupont,  will  you  sell  her  ?  " 
"Mafemme  est  sortie, 

Your  offer  I'll  tell  her, 
But — will  she  ?  "  says  he. 

Yet  Dupont  was  persuaded 
To  part  with  the  prize  ! 

(Our  bargain  was  aided, 
Zouzou^  by  your  eyes.) 
204 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    R?Z 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    HS 

From  his  legitime  save  him — 

Other's  shoes  I'd  prefer. 
For  I'll  warrant  she  gave  him 

Un  mauvais  quart  d'heure  ! 

"  I  give  you  this  pleasant 

Grimalkin,  Zouzou, 
— Ah,  Puss,  what  a  present 

I'm  giving  to  you !  " 

Frederick  Locker-Lampson 


i&%i 


MY  LIFE  IS  A 


At  Worthing  an  exile  from  Geraldine  G , 

How  aimless,  how  wretched  an  exile  is  he  ! 
Promenades  are  not  even  prunella  and  leather 
To  lovers,  if  lovers  can't  foot  them  together. 

He  flies  the  parade,  sad  by  ocean  he  stands. 

He  traces  a  '^  Geraldine  G. "  on  the  sands, 

Only  "  G !  "  though  her  loved  patronymic  is  "  Green," — 

I  will  not  betray  thee,  my  own  Geraldine. 

The  fortunes  of  men  have  a  time  and  a  tide, 

And  Fate,  the  old  fury,  will  not  be  denied ; 

That  name  was,  of  course,  soon  wiped  out  by  the  sea, 

— She  jilted  the  exile,  did  Geraldine  G. 

They  meet,  but  they  never  have  spoken  since  that, — 
He  hopes  she  is  happy — he  knows  she  is  fat ; 
8ke  woo'd  on  the  shore,  now  is  wed  in  the  Strand, — 
And  / — ^it  was  I  wrote  her  name  on  the  sand  I 

Frederick  Locker-Lampson 

205 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


HANS  BREITMANN^S  BARTY 

Hans  Breitmann  gif  a  barty ; 

Dey  hat  biano-blayin', 
I  fell'd  in  luf  mit  a  'Merican  frau. 

Her  name  vas  Madilda  Yane. 
She  hat  haar  ash  proun  ash  a  pretzel, 

Her  eyes  vas  himmel-plue, 
Und  ven  dey  looket  indo  mine, 

Dey  shplit  mine  heart  in  doo. 

Hans  Breitmann  gif  a  barty, 

I  vent  dere,  you'll  be  pound ; 
I  valtz't  mit  Madilda  Yane, 

Und  vent  shpinnen,  roundt  und  roundt. 
Der  pootust  Fraiilein  in  der  hause. 

She  vayed  'pout  doo  hoondred  pound t, 
Und  efery  dime  she  gif  a  shoomp 

She  make  der  vinders  sound. 


Hans  Breitmann  gif  a  barty, 

I  dells  you,  it  cosht  him  dear; 
Dey  rolled  in  more  ash  seven  kecks 

Of  foorst-rate  lager-peer. 
Und  venefer  dey  knocks  der  shpicket  in 

Der  Deutschen  gifs  a  cheer. 
I  dinks  dat  so  vine  a  barty 

Nefer  coom  to  a  het  dis  year. 

Hans  Breitmann  gif  a  barty ; 

Dere  all  vash  Souse  undt  Brouse, 
Ven  der  sooper  comed  in,  de  gompany 

Did  make  demselfs  to  house  ; 
Dey  ate  das  Brot  und  Gensy-broost, 

Der  Bratwurst  und  Braten  vine, 
Undt  vash  der  Abendessen  down 

Mit  vour  parrels  ov  Neckarwein. 
206 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    K?;^    RSq    faq    fs?7 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    Ha    ^    IS    ^a 

Hans  Breitmann  gif  a  barty  ; 

Ve  all  cot  troonk  ash  bigs. 
I  poot  mine  mout'  to  a  parrel  of  peer 

Undt  emptied  it  oop  mit  a  schwigs ; 
Und  den  I  giss'd  Madilda  Yane 

Und  she  sehlog  me  on  der  kop, 
Und  der  gompany  vighted  mit  daple-lecks 

Dill  der  coonshtable  mate  oos  shtop. 

Hans  Breitmann  gif  a  barty — 

Vhere  ish  dat  barty  now  ? 
Vhere  ist  der  lufly  colden  gloud 

Dat  float  on  der  moundain's  prow  ? 
Vere  ist  de  himmelstrahlende  stern — 

De  shtar  of  de  shpirit's  light  ? 
All  gon'd  afay  mit  der  lager- peer — 

Afay  in  de  ewigkeit. 

Charles  Godfrey  Leland 

("  Hans  Breitmann  ") 


BALLAD  OF  THE  MERMAID 

Der  noble  Hitter  Hugo 

Von  Schwillensaufenstein, 
Rode  out  mit  shpeer  und  helmet, 

Und  he  coom  to  de  panks  of  de  Rhine. 

Und  oop  dere  rose  a  meer-maid, 

Vot  hadn't  got  nodings  on, 
Und  she  say,  "  Oh,  Ritter  Hugo, 

Vhere  you  goes  mit  yourself  alone  ?  " 

Und  he  says,  "  I  rides  in  de  Greenwood, 
Mit  helmet  und  mit  shpeer. 

Till  I  gooms  into  ein  Gasthaus, 
Und  dere  I  trinks  some  peer.' 


207 


f^    S3    K3    K3    AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
^    E2I    y^    ^    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Und  den  outsphoke  de  maiden 

Vot  hadn't  got  nodings  on  : 
"  I  don't  tink  mooch  of  beoplesh 

Dat  goes  mit  demselfs  alone. 

"  You'd  petter  coom  down  in  de  wasser, 

Vhere  dere's  heaps  of  dings  to  see, 
Utad  haf  a  shplendid  tinner 

Und  drafel  along  mit  me. 

"  Dere  you  sees  de  fisch  a-schwimmin', 
Und  you  catches  dem  efery  one  "  :  — 

So  sang  dis  wasser  maiden 
Vot  hadn't  got  nodings  on. 

"  Dere  ish  drunks  all  full  mit  money 

In  ships  dat  vent  down  of  old ; 
Und  you  helpsh  yourself,  by  doonder ! 

To  schimmerin'  crowns  of  gold. 

*'  Shoost  look  at  dese  shpoons  und  vatches ! 

Shoost  see  dese  diamant  rings ! 
Goom  doun  und  vill  your  bockets, 

Und  I'll  giss  you  like  efery  dings. 

"  Vot  you  vantsh  mit  your  schnaps  und  lager  ? 

Coom  down  into  der  Rhine  ! 
Der  ist  pottles  der  Kaiser  Charlemagne 

Vonse  filled  mit  gold-red  wine  ! '' 

Dat  fetched  him — he  shtood  all  shpell-pound  I 

She  pooled  his  coat-tails  doun, 
She  drawed  him  oonder  der  wasser, 
De  maiden  mit  nodings  on. 

Charles  Godfrey  Leland 

("  Hans  Breitmann  ") 


208 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


YOU  ARE  OLD,  FATHER  WILLIAM 

"  You  are  old,  father  William/'  the  young  man  said, 

And  your  hair  has  become  very  white ; 
And  yet  you  incessantly  stand  on  your  head — 

Do  you  think,  at  your  age,  it  is  right  ?  '* 

"  In  my  youth,"  father  William  replied  to  his  son, 

*'  I  feared  it  might  injure  the  brain  ; 
But  now  that  I'm  perfectly  sure  I  have  none, 

Why,  I  do  it  again  and  again." 

"  You  are  old,"  said  the  youth,  '^  as  I  mentioned  before, 

And  have  grown  most  uncommonly  fat ; 
Yet  you  turned  a  back  somersault  in  at  the  door — 

Pray,  what  is  the  reason  of  that  ?  " 

"  In  my  youth,"  said  the  sage,  as  he  shook  his  grey  locks, 

"  I  kept  all  my  limbs  very  supple 
By  the  use  of  this  ointment— one  shilling  the  box — 

Allow  me  to  sell  you  a  couple." 

**  You  are  old,"  said  the  youth,  "  and  your  jaws  are  too  weak 

For  anything  tougher  than  suet ; 
Yet  you  finished  the  goose,  with  the  bones  and  the  beak — 

Pray,  how  did  you  manage  to  do  it  .'* " 

"In  my  youth,"  said  his  father,  "  I  took  to  the  law. 

And  argued  each  case  with  my  wife ; 
And  the  muscular  strength  which  it  gave  to  my  jaw, 

Has  lasted  the  rest  of  my  life." 

*'You  are  old,"  said  the  youth,  "one  would  hardly  suppose 

That  your  eye  was  as  steady  as  ever ; 
Yet  you  balanced  an  eel  on  the  end  of  your  nose — 

What  made  you  so  awfully  clever  .'*  " 

"  I  have  answered  three  questions,  and  that  is  enough," 

Said  his  father ;  "  don't  give  yourself  airs  ! 
Do  you  think  I  can  listen  all  day  to  such  stuff.'* 
Be  off,  or  I'll  kick  you  downstairs ! " 

Charles  Lutwidge  Dodgson 

("Lewis  Carroll") 
o  209 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


ODE  TO  TOBACCO 


Thou  who,  when  fears  attack, 
Bidst  them  avaunt,  and  Black 
Care,  at  the  horseman's  back 

Perching,  unseatest ; 
Sweet,  when  the  mom  is  gray  ; 
Sweet,  when  they've  cleared  away 
Lunch  ;  and  at  close  of  day 

Possibly  sweetest : 

I  have  a  liking  old 

For  thee,  though  manifold 

Stories,  I  know,  are  told. 

Not  to  thy  credit ; 
How  one  (or  two  at  most) 
Drops  make  a  cat  a  ghost — 
Useless,  except  to  roast — 

Doctors  have  said  it : 

How  they  who  use  fusees 
All  grow  by  slow  degrees 
Brainless  as  chimpanzees. 

Meagre  as  lizards : 
Go  mad,  and  beat  their  wives 
Plunge  (after  shocking  lives) 
Razors  and  carving  knives 

Into  their  gizzards. 

Confound  such  knavish  tricks  . 
Yet  know  I  five  or  six 
Smokers  who  freely  mix 

Still  with  their  neighbours 
Jones — (who,  I'm  glad  to  say, 
Asked  leave  of  Mrs.  J.) — 
Daily  absorbs  a  clay 

After  his  labours. 


210 


AN   ANTHOLOGY    OF    ^^    ^771    f^    W^ 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    ^S    ^    C^    aS 

Cats  may  have  had  their  goose 
Cooked  by  tobacco-juice  ; 
Still  why  deny  its  use 

Thoughtfully  taken  ? 
We're  not  as  tabbies  are  : 
Smith,  take  a  fresh  cigar : 
Jones,  the  tobacco-jar ! 

Here's  to  thee,  Bacon ! 

Charles  Stuart  Calverley 


BEER 

In  those  old  days  which  poets  say  were  golden — 
(Perhaps  they  laid  the  gilding  on  themselves  : 

And,  if  they  did,  I'm  all  the  more  beholden 
To  those  brown  dwellers  in  my  dusty  shelves, 

Who  talk  to  me  '^  in  language  quaint  and  olden  " 
Of  gods  and  demi-gods  and  fauns  and  elves. 

Pan  with  his  pipes,  and  Bacchus  with  his  leopards. 

And  staid  young  goddesses  who  flirt  with  shepherds  :) 

In  those  old  days,  the  Nymph  called  Etiquette 
(Appalling  thought  to  dwell  on)  was  not  born. 

They  had  their  May,  but  no  Mayfair  as  yet. 
No  fashions  varying  as  the  hues  of  morn. 

Just  as  they  pleased  they  dressed  and  drank  and  ate, 
Sang  hymns  to  Ceres  (their  John  Barleycorn) 

And  danced  unchaperoned,  and  laughed  unchecked, 

And  were  no  doubt  extremely  incorrect. 

211 


^    B3    K3    ^    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
as    ESB    ^g    ESS    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Yet  do  I  think  their  theory  was  pleasant : 

And  oft,  I  own,  my  "  wayward  fancy  roams  " 

Back  to  those  times,  so  different  from  the  present ; 
When  no  one  smoked  cigars,  nor  gave  At-homes, 

Nor  smote  a  billiard-ball,  nor  winged  a  pheasant, 
Nor  "  did  "  her  hair  by  means  of  long-tailed  combs, 

Nor  migrated  to  Brighton  once  a  year, 

Nor — most  astonishing  of  all — drank  Beer. 

No,  they  did  not  drink  Beer,  "  which  brings  me  to  " 
(As  Gilpin  said)  "  the  middle  of  my  song." 

Nor  that  the  middle  is  precisely  true. 

Or  else  I  should  not  tax  your  patience  long : 

If  I  had  said  "  beginning,"  it  might  do ; 
But  I  have  a  dislike  to  quoting  wrong  : 

I  was  unlucky, — sinned  against,  not  sinning — 

When  Cowper  wrote  down  "  middle  "  for  **  beginning." 

So  to  proceed.     That  abstinence  from  malt 
Has  always  struck  me  as  extremely  curious. 

The  Greek  mind  must  have  had  some  vital  fault. 
That  they  should  stick  to  liquors  so  injurious — 

(Wine,  water,  tempered  p'raps  with  Attic  salt — ) 
And  not  at  once  invent  that  mild,  luxurious, 

And  artful  Beverage,  Beer.     How  the  digestion 

Got  on  without  it,  is  a  startling  question. 

Had  they  digestions  .'*  and  an  actual  body 
Such  as  dyspepsia  might  make  attacks  on  ? 

Were  they  abstract  ideas — (like  Tom  Noddy 

And  Mr.  Briggs) — or  men,  like  Jones  and  Jackson  ? 

Then  nectar — was  that  beer,  or  whisky-toddy  } 
Some  say  the  Gaelic  mixture,  /  the  Saxon : 

I  think  a  strict  adherence  to  the  latter 

Might  make  some  Scots  less  pigheaded,  and  fatter. 

Besides,  Bon  Gaultier  definitely  shows 

That  the  real  beverage  for  feasting  gods  on 

Is  a  soft  compound,  grateful  to  the  nose 

And  also  to  the  palate,  known  as  **  Hodgson." 

212 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^^ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^S 

I  know  a  man — a  tailor's  son — who  rose 

To  be  a  peer :  and  this  I  would  lay  odds  on, 
(Though  in  his  Memoirs  it  may  not  appear,) 
That  that  man  owed  his  rise  to  copious  Beer. 

0  Beer  I  O  Hodgson,  Guinness,  Allsopp,  Bass  ! 
Names  that  should  be  on  every  infant's  tongue  ! 

Shall  days  and  months  and  years  and  centuries  pass, 
And  still  your  merits  be  unrecked,  unsung  ? 

Oh  !  I  have  gazed  into  my  foaming  glass, 

And  wished  that  lyre  could  yet  again  be  strung 

Which  once  rang  prophet-like  through  Greece,  and  taught 
her 

Misguided  sons  that  the  best  drink  was  water. 

How  would  he  now  recant  that  wild  opinion. 
And  sing — as  would  that  I  could  sing — of  you  ! 

1  was  not  born  (alas!)  the  "Muses'  minion," 

I'm  not  poetical,  not  even  blue ! 
And  he,  we  know,  but  strives  with  waxen  pinion, 

Whoe'er  he  is  that  entertains  the  view 
Of  emulating  Pindar,  and  will  be 
Sponsor  at  last  to  some  now  nameless  sea. 

Oh  !  when  the  green  slopes  of  Arcadia  burned 

With  all  the  lustre  of  the  dying  day, 
'  And  on  Cithaeron's  brow  the  reaper  turned, 

(Humming,  of  course,  in  his  delightful  way, 
How  Lycidas  was  dead,  and  how  concerned 

The  Nymphs  were  when  they  saw  his  lifeless  clay ; 
And  how  rock  told  to  rock  the  dreadful  story 
That  poor  young  Lycidas  was  gone  to  glory  :) 

What  would  that  lone  and  labouring  soul  have  given. 

At  that  soft  moment  for  a  pewter  pot ! 
How  had  the  mists  that  dimmed  his  eye  been  riven. 

And  Lycidas  and  sorrow  all  forgot  ! 
If  his  own  grandmother  had  died  unshriven. 

In  two  short  seconds  he'd  have  recked  it  not ; 

213 


^    [^2^    i?21    [n2:^    iOT    AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
C^    ys    E2a    ya    ISa    HUMOROUS   VERSE 

Such  power   hath    Beer.     The    heart  which    Grief  hath 

canker d 
Hath  one  unfailing  remedy — the  Tankard. 

Coffee  is  good,  and  so  no  doubt  is  cocoa ; 

Tea  did  for  Johnson  and  the  Chinamen : 
When  "  Dulce  est  desipere  in  loco  " 

Was  written,  real  Falernian  winged  the  pen. 
When  a  rapt  audience  has  encored  "  Fra  Poco  " 

Or  "  Casta  Diva,"  I  have  heard  that  then 
The  Prima  Donna  smiling  herself  out. 
Recruits  her  flagging  powers  with  bottled  stout. 

But  what  is  coffee  but  a  noxious  berry. 

Born  to  keep  used-up  Londoners  awake  } 
What  is  Falernian,  what  is  Port  or  SheiTy, 

But  vile  concoctions  to  make  dull  heads  ache  ? 
Nay  stout  itself — (though  good  with  oysters,  very) — 

Is  not  a  thing  your  reading  man  should  take. 
He  that  would  shine,  and  petrify  his  tutor, 
Should  drink  draught  AUsopp  in  its  "  native  pewter," 

But  hark  I  a  sound  is  stealing  on  my  ear — 

A  soft  and  silvery  sound — I  know  it  well. 
Its  tinkling  tells  me  that  a  time  is  near 

Precious  to  me — it  is  the  Dinner  Bell. 

0  blessed  Bell  I     Thou  bringest  beef  and  beer, 

Thou  bringest  good  things  more  than  tongue  can  tell : 
Seared  is,  of  course,  my  heart — but  unsubdued 
Is,  and  shall  be,  my  appetite  for  food. 

1  go.     Untaught  and  feeble  is  my  pen  : 

But  on  one  statement  I  may  safely  venture 
That  few  of  our  most  highly  gifted  men 

Have  more  appreciation  of  the  trencher. 
I  go.     One  pound  of  British  beef,  and  then 

What  Mr.  Swiveller  called  a  "  modest  quencher"  ; 
That  home-returning,  I  may  "  soothly  say," 
**  Fate  cannot  touch  me  :  I  have  dined  to-day." 

Charles  Stuart  Calverley 


214 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS  VERSE 


ODE— "ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT"  OF 
MAKING  A  FORTUNE 

"  Now  the  '^  rosy  mom  appearing" 

Floods  with  light  the  dazzled  heaven ; 
And  the  schoolboy  groans  on  hearing 

That  eternal  clock  strike  seven  : — 
Now  the  waggoner  is  driving 

Tow'rds  the  fields  his  clattering  wain  ; 
Now  the  blue-bottle,  reviving, 

Buzzes  down  his  native  pane. 

But  to  me  the  morn  is  hateful : 

Wearily  I  stretch  my  legs. 
Dress,  and  settle  to  my  plateful 

Of  (perhaps  inferior)  eggs. 
Yesterday  Miss  Crump,  by  message. 

Mentioned  '^  rent,"  which  '^  p'raps  I'd  pay  " 
And  I  have  a  dismal  presage 

That  she'll  call,  herself,  to-day. 

Once,  I  breakfasted  off  rosewood. 

Smoked  through  silver-mounted  pipes — 
Then  how  my  patrician  nose  would 

Turn  up  at  the  thought  of  "swipes  "  ! 
Ale, — occasionally  claret, — 

Graced  my  luncheon  then  ; — and  now 
I  drink  porter  in  a  gaiTet, 

To  be  paid  for  heaven  knows  how. 

When  the  evening  shades  are  deepened. 

And  I  doff  my  hat  and  gloves, 
No  sweet  bird  is  there  to  *^  cheep  and 

Twitter  twenty  million  loves  ; " 
No  dark-ringleted  canaries 

Sing  to  me  of  "  hungry  foam  ; " 
No  imaginary  "  Marys  " 

Call  fictitious  "  cattle  home." 


U5 


^    K75    AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    g 
as    ^    HUMOROUS   VERSE    C 

Araminta,  sweetest,  fairest ! 

Solace  once  of  every  ill ! 
How  I  wonder  if  thou  bearest 

Mivins  in  remembrance  still  I 
If  that  Friday  night  is  banished 

From  a  once  retentive  mind. 
When  the  others  somehow  vanished. 

And  we  two  were  left  behind  : — 

When  in  accents  low,  yet  thrilling, 

I  did  all  my  love  declare  ; 
Mentioned  that  I'd  not  a  shilling — 

Hinted  that  we  need  not  care  ; 
And  complacently  you  listened 

To  my  somewhat  long  address. 
And  I  thought  the  tear  that  glistened 

In  the  downdropt  eye  said  Yes. 

Once,  a  happy  child,  I  carolled 

O'er  green  lawns  the  whole  day  through, 
Not  unpleasingly  apparelled 

In  a  tightish  suit  of  blue  : — 
What  a  change  has  now  passed  o'er  me  ! 

Now  with  what  dismay  I  see 
Ever  rising  morn  before  me  ! 

Goodness  gracious  patience  me  ! 

And  I'll  proul,  a  moodier  Lara, 

Thro'  the  world,  as  prouls  the  bat. 
And  habitually  wear  a 

Cypress  wreath  around  my  hat : 
And  when  Death  snuffs  out  the  taper 

Of  my  Life  (as  soon  he  must), 
I'll  send  up  to  every  paper, 

*'  Died,  T.  Mivins  ;  of  disgust." 

Charles  Stuart  Calverley 


2lfi 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


STRIKING 


It  was  a  railway  passenger. 

And  he  lept  out  jauntilie. 
"  Now  up  and  bear,  thou  stout  porter. 

My  two  chattels  to  me. 

"  Bring  hither,  bring  hither  my  bag  so  red. 

And  portmanteau  so  brown  : 
(They  lie  in  the  van,  for  a  trusty  man 

He  labelled  them  London  town  :) 

"  And  fetch  me  eke  a  cabman  bold. 
That  I  may  be  his  fare,  his  fare  ; 
And  he  shall  have  a  good  shilling. 
If  by  two  of  the  clock  he  do  me  bring 
To  the  terminus,  Euston  Square." 

"  Now, — so  to  thee  the  saints  alway. 
Good  gentleman,  give  luck, — 

As  never  a  cab  may  I  find  this  day. 
For  the  cabmen  wights  have  struck  : 

And  now,  I  wis,  at  the  Red  Post  Inn, 

Or  else  at  the  Dog  and  Duck, 
Or  at  Unicorn  Blue,  or  at  Green  Griffin, 
The  nut-brown  ale  and  the  fine  old  gin 

Right  pleasantly  they  do  suck." 

"  Now  rede  me  aright,  thou  stout  porter, 
What  were  it  best  that  I  should  do  : 

For  woe  is  me,  an'  I  reach  not  there 
Or  ever  the  clock  strike  two." 

"  I  have  a  son,  a  lytel  son  ; 

Fleet  is  his  foot  as  the  wild  roebuck's  : 
Give  him  a  shilling  and  eke  a  brown. 
And  he  shall  carry  thy  fardels  down 
To  Euston,  or  half  over  London  town. 

On  one  of  the  station  trucks.** 


217 


fNK?    153^    rvj^    Kn    AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF 

as  ^  ^  eSs  humorous  verse 

Then  forth  in  a  hurry  did  they  twain  fare. 
The  gent,  and  the  son  of  the  stout  porter. 
Who  fled  like  an  arrow,  nor  turned  a  hair. 

Through  all  the  mire  and  muck : 
"  A  ticket,  a  ticket,  sir  clerk,  I  pray : 
For  by  two  of  the  clock  must  I  needs  away." 
"That  may  hardly  be,"  the  clerk  did  say, 

"  For  indeed — the  clocks  have  struck." 

Charles  Stuart  Calverley 


THE  YARN  OF  THE 
"NANCY  BELL'' 

'TwAS  on  the  shores  that  round  our  coast 
From  Deal  to  Ramsgate  span, 

That  I  found  alone  on  a  piece  of  stone 
An  elderly  naval  man. 

His  hair  was  weedy,  his  beard  was  long, 

And  weedy  and  long  was  he, 
And  I  heard  this  wight  on  the  shore  recite, 

In  a  singular  minor  key  : 

"  Oh,  I  am  a  cook,  and  a  captain  bold, 
And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig 

And  a  bo'sun  tight,  and  a  midshipmite, 
And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig." 
218 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF    ^:^ 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    ^S 

And  he  shook  his  fists  and  he  tore  his  hair, 

Till  I  really  felt  afraid, 
For  I  couldn't  help  thinking  the  man  had  been 
drinking, 

And  so  I  simply  said  : 

"  Oh,  elderly  man,  it's  little  I  know 

Of  the  duties  of  men  of  the  sea, 
But  I'll  eat  my  hand  if  I  understand 

How  you  can  possibly  be 

"  At  once  a  cook,  and  a  captain  bold, 

And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 
And  a  bo'sun  tight,  and  a  midshipmite, 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig." 

Then  he  gave  a  hitch  to  his  trousers,  which 

Is  a  trick  all  seamen  larn, 
And  having  got  rid  of  a  thumping  quid, 

He  spun  this  painful  yarn  : 

"  'Twas  in  the  good  ship  Nancy  Bell 

That  we  sailed  to  the  Indian  sea, 
And  there  on  a  reef  we  came  to  grief, 

Which  has  often  occurred  to  me. 

"  And  pretty  nigh  all  o'  the  crew  was  drowned 

(There  was  seventy-seven  o'  soul), 
And  only  ten  of  the  Nancy  s  men 

Said  '  Here  ! '  to  the  muster-roll. 

"  There  was  me  and  the  cook  and  the  captain  bold, 

And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 
And  the  bo'sun  tight,  and  a  midshipmite, 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig. 

"  For  a  month  we'd  neither  wittles  nor  drink. 

Till  a-hungry  we  did  feel, 
So  we  drawed  a  lot,  and  accordin'  shot 

The  captain  for  our  meal. 

219 


^2;;^    JCT    AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF 
^    E28    HUMOROUS   VERSE 

"  The  next  lot  fell  to  the  Nancy  s  mate, 

And  delicate  dish  he  made  ; 
Then  our  appetite  with  the  midshipmite 

We  seven  survivors  stayed. 

"  And  then  we  murdered  the  bo'sun  tight, 

And  he  much  resembled  pig ; 
Then  we  wittled  free,  did  the  cook  and  me, 

On  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig. 

'•'  Then  only  the  cook  and  me  was  left. 

And  the  delicate  question  *  which 
Of  us  two  goes  to  the  kettle  ? '  arose 

And  we  argued  it  out  as  sich. 

"  For  I  loved  that  cook  as  a  brother,  I  did, 

And  the  cook  he  worshipped  me  ; 
But  we'd  both  be  blowed  if  we'd  either  be  stowed 

In  the  other  chap's  hold,  you  see. 

"  *  I'll  be  eat  if  you  dines  of  me,'  says  Tom, 
*  Yes,  that,'  says  I,  '  you'll  be,' — 

*  I'm  boiled  if  I  die,  my  friend,'  quoth  I, 

And  *  Exactly  so,'  quoth  he. 

"  Says  he,  '  Dear  James,  to  murder  me 

Were  a  foolish  thing  to  do, 
For  don't  you  see  that  you  can't  cook  mCy 

W^hile  I  can — and  will — cook  you  ! ' 

"  So  he  boils  the  water,  and  takes  the  salt 
And  the  pepper  in  proportions  true 

(Which  he  never  forgot),  and  some  chopped  shalot, 
And  some  sage  and  parsley  too. 

" '  Come  here,'  says  he,  with  a  proper  pride, 
Which  his  smiling  features  tell, 

*  'Twill  soothing  be  if  I  let  you  see, 

How  extremely  nice  you'll  smell.' 
220 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF    fsr;^    P^    fpsq    R}^ 
HUMOROUS   VERSE    HS    ^    tS    Ss 

"  And  he  stirred  it  round  and  round  and  round 
And  he  sniffed  at  the  foaming  froth  ; 

When  I  ups  with  his  heels,  and  smothers  his  squeals 
In  the  scum  of  the  boiling  broth. 

"  And  I  eat  that  cook  in  a  week  or  less, 

And — as  I  eating  be 
The  last  of  his  chops,  why,  I  almost  drops. 

For  a  vessel  in  sight  I  see ! 


"  And  I  never  grieve,  and  I  never  smile. 

And  I  never  larf  nor  play. 
But  I  sit  and  croak,  and  a  single  joke 

I  have — which  is  to  say : 

**  Oh,  I  am  a  cook  and  captain  bold. 

And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 
And  a  bo'sun  tight,  and  a  midshipmite, 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig  !  " 

Sir  William  Schwenck  Gilbert 


221 


AN  ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


HAUNTED 

Haunted  ?     Ay,  in  a  social  way, 

By  a  body  of  ghosts  in  a  dread  array  : 

But  no  conventional  spectres  they — 

Appalling,  grim,  and  tricky  : 
I  quail  at  mine  as  I'd  never  quail 
At  a  fine  traditional  spectre  pale, 
With  a  turnip  head  and  a  ghostly  wail, 

And  a  splash  of  blood  on  the  dicky ! 

Mine  are  horrible  social  ghosts. 

Speeches  and  women  and  guests  and  hosts. 

Weddings  and  morning  calls  and  toasts, 

In  every  bad  variety : 
Ghosts  that  hover  about  the  grave 
Of  all  that's  manly,  free,  and  brave  : 
You'll  find  their  names  on  the  architrave 

Of  that  charnel-house.  Society. 

Black  Monday — ^black  as  its  schoolroom  ink — 
With  its  dismal  boys  that  snivel  and  think 
Of  nauseous  messes  to  eat  and  drink. 

And  a  frozen  tank  to  wash  in. 
That  was  the  first  that  brought  me  grief 
And  made  me  weep,  till  I  sought  relief 
In  an  emblematical  handkerchief. 

To  choke  such  baby  bosh  in. 

First  and  worst  in  the  grim  array — 
Ghosts  of  ghosts  that  have  gone  their  way. 
Which  I  wouldn't  revive  for  a  single  day 

For  all  the  wealth  of  Plutus — 
Are  the  horrible  ghosts  that  schooldays  scared 
If  the  classical  ghost  that  Brutus  dared 
Was  the  ghost  of  his  "Caesar"  unprepared, 

I'm  sure  I  pity  Brutus. 
222 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 

I  pass  to  critical  seventeen  : 

The  ghost  of  that  terrible  wedding  scene. 

When  an  elderly  colonel  stole  my  queen, 

And  woke  my  dream  of  heaven  : 
No  school-girl  decked  in  her  nursery  curls 
Was  my  gushing  innocent  queen  of  pearls  ; 
If  she  wasn't  a  girl  of  a  thousand  girls. 

She  was  one  of  forty -seven  ! 

I  see  the  ghost  of  my  first  cigar — 
Of  the  thence-arising  family  jar — 
Of  my  maiden  brief  (I  was  at  the  bar). 

When  I  called  the  judge  "  Your  wushup  "  ! 
Of  reckless  days  and  reckless  nights, 
With  wrenched-ofF  knockers,  extinguished  lights, 
Unholy  songs  and  tipsy  fights. 

Which  I  strove  in  vain  to  hush  up. 

Ghosts  of  fraudulent  joint-stock  banks. 
Ghosts  of  "copy,  declined  with  thanks," 
Of  novels  returned  in  endless  ranks. 

And  thousands  more,  I  suffer. 
The  only  line  to  fitly  grace 
My  humble  tomb,  when  I've  run  my  race, 
Is,  "  Reader,  this  is  the  resting-place 

Of  an  unsuccessful  duffer." 

I've  fought  them  all,  these  ghosts  of  mine, 
But  the  weapons  I've  used  are  sighs  and  brine. 
And  now  that  I'm  nearly  forty-nine, 

Old  age  is  my  only  bogy ; 
For  my  hair  is  thinning  away  at  the  crown. 
And  the  silver  fights  with  the  worn-out  brown ; 
And  a  general  verdict  sets  me  down 

As  an  irreclaimable  fogy. 

Sir  William  Schwenck  Gilbert 


223 


AN   ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


TO  THE  TERRESTRIAL  GLOBE 

BY    A   MISERABLE    WRETCH 

Roll  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on ! 
Through  pathless  realms  of  Space 

Roll  on ! 
What  though  I'm  in  a  sorry  case  ? 
What  though  I  cannot  meet  my  bills  ? 
What  though  I  suffer  toothache's  ills  ? 
What  though  I  swallow  countless  pills  ? 
Never  you  mind ! 
Roll  on ! 

Roll  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on  ! 
Through  seas  of  inky  air 

Roll  on ! 
It's  true  I  have  no  shirt  to  wear ; 
It's  true  my  butcher's  bill  is  due ; 
It's  true  my  prospects  all  look  blue — 
But  don't  let  that  unsettle  you  : 
Never  you  mind ! 
Roll  on ! 

[It  rolls  on. 
Sir  William  Schwenck  Gilbert 


^^! 


224 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


A  NIGHTMARE 


When  you're  lying  awake  with  a  dismal   headache,   and 

repose  is  taboo'd  by  anxiety, 
I  conceive  you  may  use  any  language  you  choose  to  indulge 

in  without  impropriety ; 
For  your  brain  is  on  fire — the  bedclothes  conspire  of  usual 

slumber  to  plunder  you  : 
First  your  counterpane  goes  and  uncovers  your  toes  and 

,  your  sheet  sHps  demurely  from  under  you  ; 
Then  the  blanketing  tickles — you  feel  like  mixed  pickles, 

so  terribly  sharp  is  the  pricking. 
And  you're  hot  and  you're  cross,  and  you  tumble  and  toss 

till  there's  nothing  'twixt  you  and  the  ticking. 
Then  the  bedclothes  all  creep  to  the  ground  in  a  heap, 

and  you  pick  'em  all  up  in  a  tangle  ; 
Next  your  pillow  resigns  and  politely  declines  to  remain 

at  its  usual  angle  ! 
Well,  you  get  some  repose  in  the  form  of  a  doze,  with  hot 

eyeballs  and  head  ever  aching, 
But  your  slumbering  teems  with  such  horrible  dreams  that 

you'd  very  much  better  be  waking ; 
For  you  dream  you  are  crossing  the  Channel,  and  tossing 

about  in  a  steamer  from  Harwich, 
Which  is  something  between  a  large  bathing  machine  and 

a  very  small  second-class  carriage  : 
And  you're  giving  a  treat  (penny  ice  and  cold  meat)  to  a 

party  of  friends  and  relations — 
They're  a  ravenous  horde —  and  they  all  come  on  board  at 

Sloane  Square  and  South  Kensington  Stations. 
And  bound  on  that  journey  you  find  your  attorney  (who 

started  that  morning  from  Devon) ; 
He's  a  bit  undersized,  and  you  don't  feel  surprised  when 

he  tells  you  he's  only  eleven. 
Well,  you're  driving  like  mad  with  this  singular  lad  (by- 

the-bye  the  ship's  now  a  four-wheeler). 
And   you're  playing  round  games,  and  he  calls  you  bad 

names  when  you  tell  him  that  "  ties  pay  the  dealer  "  ; 
p  225 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

But  this  you  can't  stand,  so  you  throw  up  your  hand,  and 
you  find  you're  as  cold  as  an  icicle, 

In  your  shirt  and  your  socks  (the  black  silk  with  gold 
clocks),  crossing  Salisbury  Plain  on  a  bicycle : 

And  he  and  the  crew  are  on  bicycles  too — which  they've 
somehow  or  other  invested  in — 

And  he's  telling  the  tars  all  the  particu/ar*  of  a  company 
he's  interested  in — 

It's  a  scheme  of  devices,  to  get  at  low  prices,  all  goods 
from  cough  mixture  to  cables 

(Which  tickled  the  sailors)  by  treating  retailers,  as  though 
they  were  all  vegetables — 

You  get  a  good  spadesman  to  plant  a  small  tradesman 
(first  take  off  his  boots  with  a  boot-tree), 

And  his  legs  will  take  root,  and  his  fingers  will  shoot,  and 
they'll  blossom  and  bud  like  a  fruit-tree — 

From  the  greengrocer  tree  you  get  grapes  and  green  pea, 
cauliflower,  pineapple,  and  cranberries. 

While  the  pastry-cook  plant  cherry  brandy  will  grant, 
apple  puffs,  and  three-comers,  and  banberries — 

The  shares  are  a  penny,  and  ever  so  many  are  taken  by 
Rothschild  and  Baring, 

And  just  as  a  few  are  allotted  to  you,  you  awake  with  a 
shudder  desparing — 

You're  a  regular  wreck,  with  a  crick  in  your  neck,  and 
no  wonder  you  snore,  for  your  head's  on  the  floor, 
and  you've  needles  and  pins  from  your  soles  to  your 
shins,  and  your  flesh  is  a-creep,  for  your  left  leg's 
asleep,  and  you've  cramp  in  your  toes  and  a  fly  on 
your  nose,  and  some  fluff  in  your  lung,  and  a  feverish 
tongue,  and  a  thirst  that's  intense,  and  a  general 
sense  that  you  haven't  been  sleeping  in  clover ; 

But  the  darkness  has  passed,  and  it's  daylight  at  last, 
and  the  night  has  been  long — ditto,  ditto  my  song — 
and  thank  goodness  they're  both  of  them  over ! 

Sir  William  Schwenck  Gilbert 


226 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  MOONLIGHT  SONATA 

BY    A    MUSICAL    MANIAC 


First  Movement 
Lazily,  cloudlets,  over  the  Moon, 

(Veiling  little,  if  aught  ye  veil) 
Vapours  across  the  starlight  strewn, 

Sail  for  ever,  if  thus  ye  sail. 
Idle  breezes  out  of  the  West, 

Let  them  linger  in  phantom  forms. 
Night,  be  still  as  an  infant's  rest ; 

Banish  the  darkness,  chain  the  storms. 


Hush,  my  spirit,  be  calm  as  Night ; 

Sorrow  is  calm,  but  it  is  not  peace. 
Heralds  of  tempest,  over  the  light, 

Storm-clouds  hurry  and  will  not  cease. 
Eyes  are  dim  that  were  bright  and  blue. 

Hands  were  warm  that  are  long  since  cold ; 
Both  lie  under  the  shading  yew. 

Both  lie  under  the  churchyard  mould. 


Second  Movement 

The  Elves  !  the  tiny  tricksy  Elves ! 
They  love  to  treat  their  dainty  selves. 

To  dancing  in  the  night-time. 
'Tis  twelve  o'clock — the  fairy  hour — 
For  hark  !  the  sounds  from  yonder  tow'r 

Inform  me  that's  the  right  time. 
Here  comes  the  laughing,  rabble  rout; 
See,  see — they  frisk  around,  about. 

In  every  kind  of  antic. 
And  there's  the  king — the  queen — the  court — 
The  clergy  and  the  common  sort — 

All  absolutely  frantic. 

227 


K3    K0    KJ^    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
Kb    ^    feS    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

My  goodness  gracious,  here's  a  game ! 
I'm  so  delighted  that  I  came 

To  brood  upon  my  sorrow. 
A  melancholy  muff  I've  been ; 
But,  after  this  delightful  scene, 

I'll  come  again  to-morrow. 

Last  Movement 

Hurricane  signals  gather  apace 

Thickly  over  the  pale  moon's  face ; 

Masses  of  blackness  looming  forth. 

South 'ard  and  eastward,  west  and  north. 

Wild  wind  veering,  ever  and  aye. 

Over  the  compass — over  the  sky. 

Mutter  of  thunder,  lurid  gleams, 

Rain  that  clashes  in  deluge-streams. 

Over  the  wheat-fields,  over  the  stiles, 

Two-and-a-quarter  of  English  miles. 

Boots  that  cannot  exclude  the  wet ; 

Clothes  the  thinnest  that  cash  can  get. 

Far  away,  in  the  homely  cot. 

Stands  my  gingham — the  best  I've  got. 

Never  so  much  as  a  Macintosh ; 

Never  a  cape,  or  an  odd  galosh  ! 

{Chord  in  the  minor ,  FF.) 
Henry  Sambrooke  Leigh 


228 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  HEATHEN  CHINEE 


Which  I  wish  to  remark. 

And  my  language  is  plain, 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark. 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar. 

Which  the  same  I  would  rise  to  explain. 

Ah  Sin  was  his  name. 

And  I  shall  not  deny. 
In  regard  to  the  same. 

What  that  name  might  imply ; 
But  his  smile  it  was  pensive  and  childlike. 

As  I  frequent  remarked  to  Bill  Nye. 

It  was  August  the  third ; 

And  quite  soft  were  the  skies  : 
Which  it  might  be  inferred 

That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise ; 
Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  William 

And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 

Which  we  had  a  small  game. 

And  Ah  Sin  took  a  hand : 
It  was  euchre.     The  same 

He  did  not  understand  ; 
But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  by  the  table. 

With  the  smile  that  was  childlike  and  bland. 

Yet  the  cards  that  were  stocked 

In  a  way  that  I  grieve. 
And  my  feelings  were  shocked 

At  the  state  of  Nye's  sleeve : 
Which  was  stuffed  full  of  aces  and  bowers, 

And  the  same  with  intent  to  deceive. 

229 


m    ^    AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 

\M  Eaa  HUMOROUS  verse 

But  the  hands  that  were  played 

By  that  heathen  Chinee, 
And  the  points  that  he  made. 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see  ; 
Till  at  last  he  put  down  a  right  bower, 

Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt  unto  me. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Nye, 

And  he  gazed  upon  me  ; 
And  he  rose  with  a  sigh. 

And  said,  "  Can  this  be  ? 
We  are  ruined  by  Chinese  cheap  labour ; " 

And  he  went  for  that  heathen  Chinee. 

In  the  scene  that  ensued 

I  did  not  take  a  hand; 
But  the  floor  it  was  strewed, 

Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand. 
With  the  cards  that  Ah  Sin  had  been  hiding, 

In  the  game  "  he  did  not  understand." 

In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long. 

He  had  twenty-four  packs. 
Which  was  coming  it  strong. 

Yet  I  state  but  the  facts. 
And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were  taper, 

What  is  frequent  in  tapers — that's  wax. 

Which  is  why  I  remark, 

And  my  language  is  plain. 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark. 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain. 
The  Heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar. 

Which  the  same  I  am  free  to  maintain. 

Francis  Bret  Harte 


230 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  SOCIETY  UPON  THE  STANISLAUS 

I  reside    at    Table    Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful 

James  ; 
I  am  not  up  to  small  deceit,  or  any  sinful  games  ; 
And  I'll  tell  in  simple  language  what  I  know  about  the 

row 
That  broke  up  our  society  upon  the  Stanislow. 

But  first  I  would  remark,  that  it  is  not  a  proper  plan 
For  any  scientific  gent  to  whale  his  fellow-man. 
And  if  a  member  don't  agree  with  his  peculiar  whim. 
To  lay  for  that  same  member  for  to  "  put  a  head"  on  him. 

Now,  nothing  could  be  finer  or  more  beautiful  to  see 
Than  the  first  six  months'  proceedings  of  that  same  society. 
Till  Brown  of  Calaveras  brought  a  lot  of  fossil  bones 
That  he  found  within  a  tunnel    near    the    tenement    of 
Jones. 

Then  Brown  he  read  a  paper,  and  he  reconstructed  there. 
From  those  same  bones  an  animal  that  was  extremely  rare  ; 
And  Jones  then  asked  the  Chair  for  a  suspension  of  the 

rules. 
Till  he  could  prove  that  those  same  bones  was  one  of  his 

lost  mules. 

Then    Brown  he  smiled  a  bitter  smile,  and  said  he  was 

at  fault ; 
It  seemed  he  had  been  trespassing  on  Jones's  family  vault : 
He  was  a  most  sarcastic  man,  this  quiet  Mr.  Brown ; 
And  on  several  occasions  he  had  cleaned  out  the  town. 

Now  I  hold  it  is  not  decent  for  a  scientific  gent 
To  say  another  is  an  ass — at  least  to  all  intent : 
Nor  should  the  individual  who  happens  to  be  meant. 
Reply  by  heaving  rocks  at  him  to  any  great  extent. 

231 


^    R?3    ^    lOT    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    O^ 

aa  Kb  as  ^a  humorous  verse  cSa 

The  Abner  Dean  of  Angels  raised  a  point  of  order — when 
A  chunk  of  old  red  sandstone  took  him  in  the  abdomen ; 
And  he  smiled  a  kind  of  sickly  smile,  and  curled  up  on  the 

floor. 
And  the  subsequent  proceedings  interested  him  no  more. 

For,  in  less  time  than  I  write  it,  every  member  did  engage 

In  a  warfare  with  the  remnants  of  a  palaeozoic  age ; 

And  the  way  they  heaved  those  fossils  in  their  anger  was  a 

sin, 
Till  the  scull  of  an  old    mammoth    caved    the    head   of 

Thompson  in. 

And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say  of  these  improper  games  : 
For  I  live  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful 

James ; 
And  I've  told  in  simple  language  what  I  know  about  the 

row 
That  broke  up  our  society  upon  the  Stanislow. 

Francis  Bret  Harte 


232 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


THE  LAST  DESPATCH 


Hurrah  !  the  Season's  past  at  last ; 

At  length  we've  "  done  "  our  pleasure. 
Dear  "  Pater,"  if  you  only  knew 
How  much  I've  longed  for  home  and  you, — 

Our  own  green  lawn  and  leisure  ! 

And  then  the  pets !  One  half  forgets 

The  dear  dumb  friends — in  Babel. 
I  hope  my  special  fish  is  fed  ; — 
I  long  to  see  poor  Nigra' s  head 

Pushed  at  me  from  the  stable ! 

I  long  to  see  the  cob  and  "  Rob," — 

Old  Bevis  and  the  collie : 
And  wont  we  read  in  "  Traveller's  Rest  ! " 
Home  readings  after  all  are  best ; — 

None  else  seem  half  so  "jolly  I " 

One  misses  your  dear  kindly  store 

Of  fancies  quaint  and  funny  ; 
One  misses,  too,  your  kind  bon-niot ; — 
The  Mayfair  wit  I  mostly  know 

Has  more  of  gall  than  honey  ! 

How  tired  one  grows  of  "  calls  and  balls," 

This  ''  toujours  perdrix  "  wearies ; 
I'm  longing,  quite,  for  "  Notes  on  Knox  "  ; 
{A.  propos^  I've  the  loveliest  box 

For  holding  Notes  and  Queries  !) 

A  change  of  place  would  suit  my  case. 

You'll  take  me  ? — on  probation  ? 
As  "  Lady-help,"  then,  let  it  be ; 
I  feel  (as  Lavender  shall  see). 

That  Jams  are  n.y  vocation  ! 

233 


K0    J533    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    g 
as    ^    HUMOROUS    VERSE    Q 

How's  Lavender  ?     My  love  to  her. 

Does  Briggs  still  flirt  with  Flowers  ? — 
Has  Hawthorn  stubbed  the  common  clear  ? — 
You'll  let  me  give  some  picnics,  Dear, 

And  ask  the  Vanes  and  Towers  ? 

I  met  Belle  Vane.  "  He's  "  still  in  Spain  ! 

Sir  John  won't  let  them  marry. 
Aunt  drove  the  boys  to  Brompton  Rink ; 
And  Charley, — changing  Charley, — think, 
Is  now  au  mieiLx  with  Carry  I 

And  NO.     You  know  what  "  No  "  I  mean — 

There's  no  one  yet  at  present : 
The  Benedict  I  have  in  view 
Must  be  a  something  wholly  new, — 

One's  father's  yar  too  pleasant. 

So  hey,  I  say,  for  home  and  you ! 

Good-bye  to  Piccadilly ; 
Balls,  beaux,  and  Bolton  Row,   adieu ! 
Expect  me.  Dear,  at  half-past  two  ; 

Till  then, — ^your  Own  Fond — Milly 

Austin  Dobson 


234 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


TO  THE  GENTLE  READER 

"A  French  writer  (whom  I  love  well)  speaks  of 
three  kinds  of  companions — men,  women,  and  books." — 
Sir  John  Davys. 

Three  kinds  of  companions,  men,  women,  and  books, 
Were  enough,  said  tlie  elderly  Sage,  for  his  ends. 
And  the  women  we  deem  that  he  chose  for  their  looks. 
And  the  men  for  their  cellars  :  the  books  were  his  friends : 
"  Man  delights  me  not,"  often,  "  nor  women,"  but  books 
Arc  the  best  of  good  comrades  in  loneliest  nooks. 

For  man  will  be  wrangling — for  women  will  fret 
About  anything  infinitesimal  small : 
Like  the  Sage  in  our  Plato,  I'm  "  anxious  to  get 
On  the  side  " — on  the  sunnier  side — "  of  a  wall." 
Let  the  wind  of  the  world  toss  the  nations  like  rooks, 
If  only  you'll  leave  me  at  peace  with  my  Books. 

And  which  are  my  books  ?     Why,  'tis  much  as  you  please, 

For,  given  'tis  a  book,  it  can  hardly  be  wrong, 

And  Bradshaw  himself  1  can  study  with  ease. 

Though  for  choice  I  might  call  for  a  Sermon  or  Song ; 

And  Locker  on  London,  and  Sala  on  Cooks, 

"  Tom  Brown,"  and  Plotinus,  they're  all  of  them  Books. 

There's  Fielding  to  lap  one  in  currents  of  mirth  ; 
There's  Herrick  to  sing  of  a  flower  or  a  fay  ; 
Or  good  Maitre  Fran9oys  to  bring  one  to  earth. 
If  Shelley  or  Coleridge  have  snatched  one  away  : 
There's  Miiller  on  Speech,  there  is  Gurney  on  Spooks, 
There  is  Tylor  on  Totems,  there's  all  sorts  of  Books. 

There's  roaming  in  regions  where  every  one's  been. 

Encounters  where  no  one  was  ever  before. 

There   "Leaves   from   the    Highlands"  we   owe   to  the 

Queen, 
There's  Holly's  and  Leo's  adventures  in  K6r  : 
There's  Tanner  who  dwelt  with  Pawnees  and  Chinooks, 
You  can  cover  a  great  deal  of  country  in  Books. 

235 


[>7^    jOT    AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
ess    ^    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

There  are  books,  highly  thought  of,  that  nobody  reads. 
There  is  Geusius*  dearly  delectable  tome 
Of  the  Cannibal — he  on  his  neighbour  who  feeds — 
And  in  blood-red  morocco  'tis  bound,  by  Derorae, 
There's  Montaigne  here  (a  Foppens),  there's  Roberts  (on 

Flukes), 
There's  Elzevirs,  Aldines,  and  Gryphius'  Books. 

There's  Bunyan,  there's  Walton,  in  early  editions. 
There's  many  a  quarto  uncommonly  rare  ; 
There's  quaint  old  Quevedo  adream  with  his  visions, 
There's  Johnson  the  portly,  and  Burton  the  spare ; 
There's  Boston  of  Ettrick,  who  preached  of  the  "  Crooks 
In  the  Lots  "  of  us  mortals,  who  bargain  for  Books. 

There's  Ruskin  to  keep  one  exclaiming  ''  What  next }  " 
There's  Browning  to  puzzle,  and  Gilbert  to  chaff, 
And  Marcus  Aurelius  to  soothe  one  if  vexed. 
And  good  Marcus  Tvainus  to  lend  you  a  laugh  ; 
There  be  capital  tomes  that  are  filled  with  fly-hooks. 
And  I've  frequently  found  them  the  best  kind  of  Books. 

Andrew  Lang 


236 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


ADIEU  TO  ARGYLL 


Land  of  the  purple  heather,  where,  much  to  my  content, 
Three  weeks  of  broken  weather  I  recently  have  spent, 
Although  in  panegyric  I  don't  intend  to  deal, 
Accept  this  humble  lyric  penned  by  a  cockney  chiel. 

I  went  not  to  the  Trossachs,  where,  ev'n  in  times  of  peace. 

Hotel-exploiting  Cossacks  the  simple  Saxon  fleece ; 

By  dexterously  dodging  the  holidaying  host, 

1  found  a  modest  lodging  upon  the  western  coast. 

Your  climate,  Caledonia,  the  Curate's  egg  recalls. 
At  times  it  breeds  pneumonia  by  dint  of  gales  and  squalls ; 
But  when  the  misty  blanket  disperses,  at  such  times 
I  confidently  rank  it  among  the  best  of  climes. 

Your  diet  is  most  grateful,  though  why  do  people  frown 
When  I  devour  my  plateful  of  porridge  sitting  down  ? 
Your  music  is  soul-shaking  with  skirls  and  yelps  and  snaps, 
And  1  adore  your  baking  of  girdle-cakes  and  baps. 

I  like  your  bare-legged  caddies  who,  destitute  of  ruth, 
(Unlike  their  brother  Paddies)  tell  me  the  bitter  truth — 
That,  till  I  mend  my  errors  in  grip  and  stance  and  swing. 
Golfs  enervating  terrors  will  never  lose  their  sting. 

Susceptible  to  beauty  in  ev'ry  form  and  shade 
I  hail  it  as  a  duty  to  praise  the  Hieland  maid. 
Whose    charms  throughout  a  broader  expanse  are  lately 

blown 
Since  breathed  by  Harry  Lauder  into  the  gramophone. 

Fair  smiles  the  face  of  Nature  on  Scotia's  genial  strand. 
But  Scotia's  nomenclature  is  hard  to  understand ; 
Joppa  and  Portobello  a  mild  surprise  promote. 
While  Grogport  strikes  a  mellow  but  dissipated  note. 

Land  of  the  sturdy  thistle,  land  of  the  eagle's  nest, 
Why  do  you  whet  your  whistle  with  such  appalling  zest  ? 
And  why  endure  the  orgies  enacted  year  by  year 
When  Glasgow  Fair  disgorges  its  wreckage  on  each  pier  ? 

237 


^    [nZ^    K?5    [nZ:^    K?1    AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF    ^\ 
CSi    ^    ^    ^    ^    HUMOROUS    VERSE    C2a 

(A  partial  explanation  one  may  perchance  descry 
In  that  well-worn  quotation  corruptio  optimi ; 
Besides,  the  canny  Scottish,  or  Scot,  to  be  more  terse. 
If  he  were  never  sottish,  would  swamp  the  universe.) 

Yet  why  recount  these  stories  of  superficial  flaws 

When  past  and  present  glories    combine    to   plead    your 

cause  ? 
When  ev'ry  glen  is  ringing  with  tales  of  old  renown. 
And  ev'ry  bum  is  singing  how  Charlie  lost  his  crown  ? 

I've  roamed  and  climbed  and  wandered  among  the  Western 

Isles, 
And  gazed  on  Erin  sundered  by  twenty  foam-flecked  miles  ; 
Behind  the  hills  of  Jura  I've  seen  the  sun  go  down. 
Unseated  atra  cur  a,  forgot  the  dusty  town. 

Bowed  down  by  such  a  burden  of  undeserved  delight, 
A  boon  no  earthly  guerdon  could  fittingly  requite. 
From  all  unworthy  carping  I'll  willingly  forbear, 
And  quite  abstain  from  harping  upon  the  Glasgow  Fair. 

So,  as  I  cross  the  border  where,  frowning  o'er  the  deep, 
Like  to  an  ancient  warder  stands  Berwick's  rugged  keep. 
Reluctantly  retreating  to  London  by  the  mail, 
I  wave  regretful  greeting  unto  the  Western  Gael. 

Charles  L.  Graves 


THE  RUNAWAY  RHYME 

HUMBLY    DEDICATED    TO    ALL    WOULD-BE    LAUREATES 

I  ONCE  sat  astride  on  a  runaway  rhyme ; 

He  was  bitted  and  bridled  and  saddled  with  care ; 
I  had  tightened  the  girths  and  had  ventured  to  climb, 

Heart  in  mouth,  to  the  saddle,  determined  to  dare. 
Then,  his  eyes  flashing  fire  and  his  nostrils  all  blood, 
He  was  off  with  a  rush  like  a  river  in  flood. 
338 


^    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    R^ 
cSi    HUMOROUS    VERSE    Ha 

I  spoke  to  him  softly,  I  tugged  at  the  rein, 

Lay  back,  braced  my  shoulders  to  master  his  mouth  ; 

But  he  forced  his  head  down,  and  went  scouring  the  plain 
With  the  speed  of  a  swallow  that  flies  to  the  south. 

And  behind,  far  behind,  echoed  faintly  the  sounds. 

Where  the  quarry  lay  hiding,  of  horns  and  of  hounds. 

I  had  tracked  it  at  eve,  all  intent  to  rehearse 

The  delights  of  the  morrow,  through  brushwood  and 
brake ; 

I  had  thought  never  quarry  was  fitter  for  verse. 

Made  my  plans  for  its  capture  all  night  lain  awake. 

And  at  break  of  the  day,  with  my  crop  going  crack. 

Spurred  and  booted  I  went  and  unkennelled  the  pack. 


Then  I  mounted  old  ''  Hack-rhyme  "  and  ambled  along — 
I  knew  all  his  tricks  and  his  paces  by  heart — 

Till  we  came  to  the  covert,  and  there  'mid  the  throng 
One   steed    topped   the    others;    the  sight    made    me 
start. 

For  a  voice  seemed  to  whisper,  "  If  manhood  endures, 

That's  the  horse  you  must  hunt  on  ;  be  bold,  he  is  yours." 

I  was  down  in  a  moment ;  I  stood  by  his  side 

While  he  tossed  his  thin  head  in  desire  of  the  run. 

"That  horse,"  said  the  voice,  *'is  the  horse  you  must  ride  ; 
He  could  carry  you  straight  from  the  earth  to  the  sun. 

He  was  fashioned  of  fury  and  fire  in  a  day " 

Then  I  lingered  no  more,  but  was  up  and  away. 


The  forests,  the  rivers,  the  fields,  that  I  knew, 

Rushing  forth  like  a  tempest,  he  left  them  behind  ; 

Took  the  fences  and  brooks  in  his  stride  as  he  flew. 
Unabashed  and  unchecked  in  the  heart  of  the  wind. 

And  he  crashed  and  he  thundered  regardless  of  me, 

Till  I  heard  as  we  galloped  the  roar  of  the  sea. 

239 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

Yes,  the  sea  was  in  front,  and  again  and  again 
I  fought  with  the  devil  whose  back  I  bestrode. 

My  strength  was  as  water  ;  I  struggled  in  vain ; 
On,  on,  ever  onward  we  rattled  and  rode  ; 

Till  at  last,  on  a  sudden,  he  stopped  and  stood  stiff 

As  statue  of  stone  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 

And  I  ?  Like  an  arrow  I  sped  through  the  air, 

And  the  waves  as  I  fell  seemed  to  rise  with  a  leap. 

Till  they  claimed    me    and    clasped    me ;    and  down    in 
despair. 
With  a  curse  on  all  riding,  I  sank  in  the  deep. 

Then  I  knew  nothing  more  till  I  woke  on  the  sand. 

Where  the  purposeless  ocean  had  flung  me  to  land. 


So  now  I  am  cautious  ;  one  ride  is  enough 

On  a  rhyme  which,  thank  goodness,  I  never  saw  since. 
They  may  jeer  me  and  flout  me  and  dub  me  a  muff: 

Though  my  withers  be  wrung,  I  try  not  to  wince. 
For  I  fain  would  ride  safely,  and  vowed  that  next  time 
I  would  rather  ride  prose  than  a  runaway  rhyme. 

Rudolph  Chambers  Lehmann 


A  POLITICAL  ALLEGORY 

Once  there  was  a  famous  nation 
W^ith  a  long  and  splendid  past : 

Very  splendid  was  its  station. 
And  its  territor>^  vast ; 

It  had  won  the  approbation. 

The  applause  and  admirationj 
240 


AN    ANTHOLOGY    OF    f^    ^JTi 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    HS    ^M 

Of  the  states  who'd  had  occasion. 
In  a  time  of  tribulation. 
And  of  disorganisation. 
Not  to  mention  degradation. 
And  profound  humiliation. 

To  observe  it  standing  fast 
Without  any  trepidation. 
Or  a  sign  of  vacillation. 

Firm  and  faithful  to  the  last. 


Came  a  time  of  dire  distraction, 

Full  of  terror  and  despair. 
When  a  delicate  transaction 

Called  for  unexampled  care  ; 
But  the  people  were  directed. 
Both  the  well  and  ill-affected. 
To  a  wholly  unexpected 
And  surprising  course  of  action. 

Based  on  motives  new  and  rare 
(Being  governed  by  a  faction. 

As  they  generally  were). 


In  a  little  time  the  nation 

Had  a  chance  of  saying  whether 
It  and  its  administration 

Seemed  inclined  to  pull  together : 
And  it  spoke  its  mind  with  vigour : — 

"  Such  disgraceful  conduct  must 
Everlastingly  disfigure 

Future  annals  and  disgust 
Evermore  the  candid  student : 
You  have  been  unwise,  imprudent. 

Pusillanimous,  unjust; 
And  neglectful  of  the  glory 

Appertaining  to  our  name 
Till  this  melancholy  story 

Put  a  period  to  our  fame." 

9  241 


^    !^    JSJI    K0    IS?^    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
C2!a    Sffl    Ea^    y®    lESa    HUMOROUS    VERSE 

So  this  faction,  disappointed, 
Lost  the  national  good  graces, 

And  their  rivals  were  anointed, 
And  were  set  in  the  high  places. 

Pretty  soon  arose  conditions 
Most  embarrassing  and  hard. 

And  the  party  politicians 
Had  to  be  upon  their  guard. 

Illegitimate  ambitions, 
Democratic  rhetoricians. 
Persons  prone  to  bare  submissions, 
Men  of  warlike  dispositions. 
Wild  and  wicked  statisticians. 
Metaphysical  magicians. 
People  apt  to  sign  petitions, 
Men  inclined  to  make  conditions. 

And  a  host  of  wary  foes, 
Compassed  round  the  ruling  faction  : 
But  a  certain  line  of  action 

They  incontinently  chose : 
And  with  great  determination 
And  extreme  discrimination. 
Not  untouched  by  exaltation, 
After  proper  preparation, 
And  profound  examination. 
Wrought  it  out  with  acclamation, 
And  each  other's  approbation. 
Till  the  national  taxation 

Not  unnaturally  rose. 

To  the  nation  now  occurred  an 

Opportunity  of  saying 
What  they  thought  about  the  burden 

Which  the  government  was  laying 
On  their  shoulder  :  and  they  said  it 

In  uncompromising  terms  : — 
'•  Your  behaviour  would  discredit 

Tigers,  crocodiles,  and  worms : 
242 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    ^^ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    ^ 

You  have  ruined  and  disgraced  us 
And  successfully  effaced  us^ 
From  the  proud  commanding  station 
Where  the  zeal  and  penetration 

Of  our  ancestors  had  placed  us. 
Go  !  we  are  a  ruined  nation  ; 

But  before  our  dissolution 
We  pronounce  your  condemnation — 

Sappers  of  our  constitution^ 
Slayers  of  our  reputation  I " 

But  the  nation — mark  the  moral. 

For  its  value  is  untold — 
During  each  successive  quarrel 

Grew  and  prospered  as  of  old. 

James  Kenneth  Stephen 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A 
COLLEGE  CAT 

The  Junior  Fellow's  vows  were  said  ; 
Among  his  co-mates  and  their  Head 

His  place  was  fairly  set. 
Of  welcome  from  friends  old  and  new 
Full  dues  he  had,  and  more  than  due ; 

What  could  be  lacking  yet  ? 

One  said,  "  The  Senior  Fellow's  vote  ! ' 
The  Senior  Fellow,  black  of  coat. 

Save  where  his  front  was  white, 
Arose  and  sniffed  the  stranger's  shoes 
With  critic  nose,  as  ancients  use 

To  judge  mankind  aright. 


245 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

I — for  'twas  I  who  tell  the  tale — 
Conscious  of  fortune's  trembling  scale. 

Awaited  the  decree  ; 
But  Tom  had  judged  :  "  He  loves  our  race," 
And,  as  to  his  ancestral  place, 

He  leapt  upon  my  knee. 

Thenceforth  in  common-room  and  hall 
A  ver%is  socius  known  to  all 

I  came  and  went  and  sat. 
Far  from  cross  fate's  or  envy's  reach  ; 
For  none  a  title  could  impeach 

Accepted  by  the  cat. 

While  statutes  changed,  and  freshmen  came, 
His  gait,  his  wisdom  were  the  same. 

His  age  no  more  than  mellow  ; 
Yet  nothing  mortal  may  defy 
The  march  of  Anno  Dominij 

Not  e'en  the  Senior  Fellow. 

Beneath  our  linden  shade  he  lies ; 
Mere  eld  hath  softly  closed  his  eyes 

With  late  and  honoured  end. 
He  seems,  while  catless  we  confer. 
To  join  with  faint  Elysian  purr, 

A  tutelary  friend. 

Sir  Frederick  Pollock 


244 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


THE  SPLENDID  BANKRUPT 

BEING    A    HINT   TO    OUR    LEGISLATORS    AND    A 
REMINDER    TO    THE    OFFICIAL    RECEIVER 

Under  its  spreading  bankruptcy 

The  village  mansion  stands  ; 
Its  lord,  a  mighty  man  is  he. 

With  large,  broad-acred  lands ; 
And  the  laws  that  baulk  his  creditoi-s 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  laugh  is  free  and  loud  and  long. 

His  dress  is  spick-and-span ; 
He  pays  no  debt  with  honest  sweat. 

He  keeps  whate'er  he  can, 
And  stares  the  whole  world  in  the  face. 

For  he  fears  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night. 

Prince-like  he  runs  the  show  ; 
And  a  round  of  social  gaieties 

Keeps  things  from  getting  slow — 
As  the  agent  of  his  wife,  of  course, 

His  credit's  never  low. 

His  children,  coming  back  from  school. 

Bless  their  progenitor. 
Who's  ruffling  at  the  yearly  rate 

Of  fifteen  thou,  or  more. 
Nor  care  they  how  his  victims  fly 

To  the  workhouse  open  door. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church 

With  all  whom  he  employs. 
To  hear  the  parson  pray  and  preach. 

Condemning  stolen  joys ; 
It  falls  like  water  off  his  back — 

His  conscience  ne'er  annoys. 

e45 


2^    R71    IS2:^    R?1    AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    E 

sa  ^  yia  ^  HUMOROUS  verse  b 

Scheming,  promoting,  squandering. 

Onward  through  hfe  he  goes ; 
Each  morning  sees  some  "  deal "  begun, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 
Some  coup  attempted,  some  one  "  done," 

Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks,  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend. 

For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 
Thus  in  the  busy  City  life 

Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 
Thus  does  the  Splendid  Bankrupt  thrive 

While  honest  fools  get  nought ! 

Arthur  A.  Sykes 


246 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


ODE  TO  THE  BACK  OF  MY  HEAD 

My  selfs  part- creature,  whose  unlovely  shape, 

Making  thy  lord  a  public  raree-show. 
Doth  ride  my  hitherto  unconscious  nape 

Plain  to  all  eyes  save  mine ;  to  whom  I  owe 

The  consequence,  more  galling  than  a  blow, 
Of  ribald  gesture  and  unfettered  jape 

That  marks  our  passage  wheresoe'er  we  go  ; 
Back  of  my  Head,  this  day  I  looked  on  thee. 
And  do  accept  the  gods'  inscrutable  decree. 

'Tis  sad  to  hear  the  personal  remark 

Rising  distinctly  o'er  the  social  hum ; 
'Tis  sad  to  see  the  mirth-enkindled  spark 

In  eyes  that  always  brighten  when  we  come; 

Sad  to  be  conscious  of  the  gibing  thumb. 
Yet  find  the  cause  thereof  profoundly  dark  ; 

To  move  'mid  waggish  coteries,  where  some. 
With  contumelious  fluttering  of  the  lid. 
Ask,  "  Did  you  ever  ?  "  or  declare,  "  They  never  did ! 

Oft  I  have  cast  an  apprehensive  glance 

Into  some  friendly  mirror  standing  by, 
Fearing  that  by  some  tragical  mischance 

I  might  have  come  away  without  my  tie ; 

Yet  was  my  habit  formal  to  the  eye. 
True,  I  am  something  strange  of  countenance, 

But  there  are  others  even  more  awry; 
My  contour — there  are  many  far  more  fat ; 
/  never  knew  what  those  idiots  were  laughing  at ! 

And  it  has  been  that  men  have  called  me  proud ; 

For  I  have  tamed  my  features  to  a  stare 
Of  lofty  tolerance,  and  spurned  the  crowd 

With  the  unruffled  camel's  tranquil  air 

Of  one  superior,  who  doesn't  care  ! 


247 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 

They  knew  not  that  my  spirit  cried  aloud. 
To  beg  the  stronger  kindly  to  forbear ; 
To  bid  the  small  be  careful  what  he  said ; 
And,  with  a  brave  man's  wrath,  to  punch  the  weakling' 
head. 

To-day,  I  tarried  for  a  fleeting  space 

Where  my  confiding  tailor  plies  his  craft ; 
I  met  my  mirrored  double  face  to  face  ; 

(How  strange  !)  I  saw  him  sideways  and  abaft ; 

And,  for  the  coolness  of  the  genial  draught. 
Had  cast  my  beaver  from  his  pride  of  place 

And  there,  oh,  clear  as  tho'  'twere  photographed, 
Thou  crusher  of  a  good  man's  sturdy  pride, 
I  saw  thy  multiple  aspect,  and  was  petrified. 

I  have  no  will  to  hold  thee  up  to  scorn. 

Nor  power  to  say.  No  more  be  head  of  mine ! 
Thou  art  my  burden,  and  must  needs  be  borne. 

But  I  go  humbly,  and  henceforth  decline 

All  indoor  fetes  :  I  shall  not  dance  or  dine, 
I  shall  go  nowhere  save  where  hats  are  worn  ! 

Nay,  further, — be  the  blame  accounted  thine. 
Thou  Object ! — lest  the  worshipper  should  scoff, 
I,  with  extreme  regret,  shall  take  to  Sunday  Golf ! 

John  Kendall 


fm 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


LOVE'S  COLOURS 

It  is  not  in  her  azure  eyes 

That  Delia's  main  attraction  lies. 

They  have  been  much  admired,  it's  true. 

But  I  prefer  a  darker  blue 

(I  always  did — and  always  do). 

Her  locks  (a  wealth  of  deepest  brown) 
Have  gained  a  general  renown  ; 
For  me,  my  favourite  shades  of  hair 
Are  touched  with  sunshine  here  and  there 
(They  always  are — and  always  were). 

The  creamy  glories  of  her  cheek 
Have  charms  that  many  hold  unique ; 
To  me  the  red  rose  gives  a  thrill 
More  than  the  palest  daffodil 
(It  always  has — and  always  will). 

But  though  my  Delia's  outward  hues 
May  not  be  all  that  one  would  choose. 
Her  full  perfection  blooms  unseen  : 

*  *  •  • 

There  is  not — there  has  never  been — 
A  maiden  so  divinely  green. 

John  Kendall 


S49 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS   VERSE 


DE  GUSTIBUS- 


S50 


I  AM  an  unadventurous  man, 
And  always  go  upon  the  plan 
Of  shunning  danger  where  I  can. 

And  so  I  fail  to  understand 
Why  every  year  a  stalwart  band 
Of  tourists  go  to  Switzerland, 

And  spend  their  time  for  several  weeks, 
With  quaking  hearts  and  pallid  cheeks, 
Scaling  abrupt  and  windy  peaks. 

In  fact,  I'm  old  enough  to  find 
Climbing  of  almost  any  kind 
Is  very  little  to  my  mind. 

A  mountain  summit  white  with  snow 
Is  an  attractive  sight,  I  know, 
But  why  not  see  it  Jrom  below  ? 

W^hy  leave  the  hospitable  plain 

And  scale  Mont  Blanc  with  toil  and  pain 

Merely  to  scramble  down  again  ? 

Some  men  pretend  they  think  it  bliss 
To  clamber  up  a  precipice 
Or  dangle  over  an  abyss. 

To  crawl  along  a  mountain  side. 
Supported  by  a  rope  that's  tied 
— Not  too  securely — to  a  guide  ; 

But  such  pretences,  it  is  clear. 
In  the  aspiring  mountaineer 
Are  usually  insincere. 

And  many  a  climber,  I'll  be  bound. 
Whom  scarped  and  icy  crags  surround, 
Wishes  himself  on  level  ground. 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF    Rj;^ 
HUMOROUS    VERSE    tM 

So  I,  for  one,  do  not  propose 
To  cool  my  comfortable  toes 
In  regions  of  perpetual  snows. 

As  long  as  I  can  take  my  ease. 
Fanned  by  a  soothing  southern  breeze, 
Under  the  shade  of  English  trees. 

And  any  one  who  leaves  my  share 
Of  English  fields  and  English  air 
May  take  the  Alps  for  aught  I  care  I 

St.  John  Hankin 


S51 


AN    ANTHOLOGY   OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


BY  DEPUTY 


As  Shakespeare  couldn't  write  his  plays 

(If  Mrs.  Gallup' s  not  mistaken) 
I  think  how  wise  in  many  ways, 

He  was  to  have  them  done  by  Bacon ; 
They  might  have  mouldered  on  the  shelf 

Mere  minor  dramas  (and  he  knew  it !) 
If  he  had  written  them  himself 

Instead  of  letting  Bacon  do  it. 

And  if  its  true,  as  Brown  and  Smith 

In  many  learned  tomes  have  stated. 
That  Homer  was  an  idle  myth. 

He  ought  to  be  congratulated. 
Since  thus,  evading  birth,  he  rose 

For  men  to  worship  at  a  distance  : 
He  might  have  penned  inferior  prose 

Had  he  achieved  a  real  existence. 

To  him  and  Shakespeare  men  agree 

In  making  very  nice  allusions ; 
But  no  one  thinks  of  praising  me, 

For  I  compose  my  own  effusions : 
As  others  wrote  their  works  divine 

And  they  immortal  thus  to-day  are. 
Perhaps  had  some  one  written  mine 

I  might  have  been  as  great  as  they  are. 

Arthur  St.  John  Adcock 


25d 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


MY  NEIGHBOUR 


Next  door  the  summer  roses  bloom 

And  breathe  their  hearts  out  day  by  day 

To  please  a  gentle  gardener  whom 
'Twere  happiness  to  thus  obey  : 

For  her  each  rose  a  fragrance  gives 
That  roses  grudge  to  common  labour. 

And  there,  next  door,  among  them  lives 
My  neighbour. 

I  watch  her  in  her  garden  fair, 

And  think  what  joy  my  life  would  bless 

Could  she  and  I  but  wander  there, 
A  shepherd  and  a  shepherdess. 

As  blithe  as  those  of  ancient  myth 

That  danced  aud  sang  to  pipe  and  tabor : 

Who  would  not  thus  be  happy  with 
My  neighbour  ? 

Blue  eyes,  and  hair  of  sunny  brown, 

A  form  of  such  exceeding  grace, 
And  features  in  whose  smile  and  frown 

Such  tender  beauty  I  can  trace 
That  here  to  sketch  her  free  from  flaw 

Defies  the  pencil  of  a  Faber, 
And  yet  I  yearn  so  much  to  draw 
My  neighbour ! 

I'm  keeping  one  commandment — an 

Epitome  of  all  the  ten — 
So  if  I,  when  my  life  began, 

Was  bom  in  sin  like  other  men. 
To  innocence  that  shames  the  dove, 

I've  mellowed  since  I  was  a  babe,  or 
How  could  I  so  devoutly  love 
My  neighbour  ? 

Arthur  St.  John  Adcock 


S53 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 


TO  EMMELINE 


S54 


She  was  "a  phantom  of  delight." 

One  of  those  rare  elusive  things 
Detained  this  side  the  Ervigkeit 

Through  temporary  want  of  wings  ; 
Our  world  was  not  her  natural  place, 

Rather  she  seemed  a  priceless  relic 
Of  Faerieland's  enchanted  grace. 

She  was  so  birdlike,  so  angelic. 

I  often  wondered  what  she  ate ; 

She  looked  as  though  she  lived  on  air. 
Or  if  she  fed  from  off  a  plate. 

Would  only  touch  ambrosial  fare  ; 
No  man  that  dealt  in  butcher's  meat 

Had  ever  been  allowed  to  victual 
With  stuff  we  common  mortals  eat 

A  form  so  exquisitely  brittle. 

Such  were  my  views  when  first  I  fell 

In  salad  days  still  fairly  green, 
Beneath  the  spiritual  spell 

Of  my  unearthly  Emmeline  ; 
She  had  on  me  a  marked  effect : 

Each  moment  spent  in  gazing    at  her 
Tended  to  make  me  more  select. 

And  purge  ray  soul  of  grosser  matter. 

And  yet  a  fear  assailed  my  mind 

When  I  reviewed  my  purposed  vows — 
Whether  a  being  so  refined 
7    W^ould  make  a  good  domestic  spouse ; 
Would  she,  as  fits  a  faithful  wife 
1    (The  thought  already  made  me  thinner). 
Count  it  her  chief  concern  in  life 
To  see  that  I  enjoyed  my  dinne  ? 


AN    ANTHOLOGY  OF 
HUMOROUS    VERSE 

She  whom  (I  guessed)  a  currant  bun 

Sufficed  for  hunger's  faint  appeals — 
Would  she  respect,  when  we  were  one. 

My  prejudice  for  decent  meals  ? 
Anxious  for  some  assuring  sign 

To  clinch  my  hesitating  passion, 
I  asked  my  angel  out  to  dine 

At  London's  first  resort  of  fashion. 

She  came.     She  passed  a  final  word 

Upon  the  bisque,  the  Mornai/  sole, 
The  poulet  (said  she  thought  the  bird 

Showed  at  its  best  en  casserole) ; 
She  found  the  parfait  "quite  first-rate/* 

Summed  up  the  chef  as  "rather  handy," 
Knew  the  Lafitte  for  '88, 

And  thrice  encored  a  fine  old  brandy. 

I  own  I  felt  an  inward  pain. 

When  she  put  off  her  seraph  airs. 
To  find  I  had  to  entertain 

An  earthly  angel  unawares ; 
I  merely  asked  her  there  to  test 

Her  aptness  for  a  wifely  calling. 
And  never  dreamed  that  she  possessed 

A  special  knowledge  so  appalling  ! 

Frankly,  she  went  a  shade  too  far. 

It  was  a  shock— I  feel  it  still — 
To  learn  that  what  I  deemed  a  star 

Was  just  an  ember  off  the  grill ! 
Well,  twenty  years  or  so  have  gone. 

And  now  I  meet  her  (ah,  the  pity !), 
A  puffy  matron  serving  on 

The  "  New  Amphitryon  Club  "  Committee. 

Owen  Seaman 


Lg-^.  vsy^Aji^LSiS:-::::^: 


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